


A Sunset Rhapsody

by darksister1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gags, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Jon Snow Has PTSD, M/M, Master/Slave, Minor Character Death, Multi, Original Character(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Sex Toys, Sexual Slavery, Slow Burn, Threats of Violence, Travel, Violence, Warg Jon Snow, sex slave jon snow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:36:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 49,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21979684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darksister1/pseuds/darksister1
Summary: After Jon is senteced to retake the Black, his ship is attacked by a group of angry Dothraki who, seeking further revenge, decide to sell him as a slave in the free cities. Sansa becomes Queen, unaware of both Jon's predicment and Arya's misadventure at sea. When Sansa hears of Jon's fate, she sets out to find him and bring him home, with the help of Tormund. Arya's lost until she's not. Jon's journey is painful and torturous and it will lead him to the place he was always meant to be.I will add tags and relationships as they come up.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Others, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 121
Kudos: 199





	1. So by day she’d weave at her great and growing web...

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank @manixzen for beta-reading my chapters. It was a great help. All mistakes are mine

“...for when the gods have made up their minds they do not change them lightly.”

Homer, _The Odyssey_

"Where is Jon?"

Sansa tries to keep the growing worry from her voice. Her ice blue eyes pierce Grey Worm, as if she could take his head just by looking at him with enough hate. Her lower lip trembles imperceptibly, a sign of her panic creeping in. She would feel completely alone in her fear were it not for her younger sister, sitting on Bran’s other side. Without even looking, she knows Arya wears the same worried expression as she does, in contrast to Bran’s cold apathy. When Bran calmly told her what had happened in King’s Landing, what Jon had done, Sansa felt sick. She knew how much her cousin loved his Queen, and that he could only have one reason for murdering the woman he loved: to save her and Arya and Bran. To save everyone else probably. Stupid, stupidly brave Jon. And yet, had that not been what she herself had wanted? For him to turn on the Targaryen Queen, for him to show loyalty to his own? Had she not wanted her gone? Yes, she had, but not like this. Not to the cost of Jon’s freedom, or worse, his head.

As he told her what happened in King’s Landing, Bran had been as cryptic as ever, selfish with the details, but Sansa herself isn‘t sure she had wanted to know. She just knew Jon was a prisoner of the Unsullied, and Arya was in the city, unwilling to leave her big brother behind. Bran told her Grey Worm had already sent them and every other liege lord in Westeros letters, to summon them to the Dragon Pit, to discuss the terms of surrender. To discuss Jon’s life. Sansa wasted no time waiting for ravens. Dark wings, dark words, her mother used to say. She gathered the small forces Jon had left in Winterfell for her benefit and set out on the Kings Road. To Sansa, the retinue could not have traveled slower; her mind still on one thing. Jon.

"He is our prisoner,” answers Grey Worm with a touch of litigiousness in his voice.

"So is Lord Tyrion. They were both to be brought to this gathering," she futilely argues, hating that she has no power here, not with Jon in the enemy’s grasp.

"We will decide what we do with our prisoners. This is our city now," replies the Unsullied with uncharacteristic smugness. Missandei’s death has made him litigious and unforgiving, had warned Bran, just as much as his late Queen.

Well, that will not do.

"If you look outside the walls of your city," starts she with sarcastic reverence "you’ll find thousands of northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your interest."

"And you will find thousands of Unsullied that believe that it is," argues the commander of the Unsullied petulantly. 

Sansa opens her mouth, as does Ser Davos, though with different intentions, but both are beaten to it by Yara Greyjoy, whose words contribute to heighten Sansa’s queasiness. 

She feels so alone, as she listens to Theon’s sister talk about her cousin, her blood, as if he is nothing but a murderer, as if he hasn’t saved each and every one of them, first by warning them of the threat to the North and finally, by stopping a Queen who was too strong, too entitled and too dangerous for this country. The smell of burnt skin permeating the air, already so thick with tension, is proof enough. Jon had had no choice. Correction - he had had no easy choice.

"-I swore to follow Daenerys Targaryen-"

"You swore to follow a tyrant," interjects Sansa, as her last hope trembles, the way a candle in the wind does.

"She freed us from a tyrant. Cersei is gone because of her, and Jon Snow put a knife through her heart," continues the Ironborn. 

Sansa wishes for a knife herself at the moment.

How dare she condemn Jon, when she doesn’t even know him? Jon, who had forgiven Theon, her brother, everything in spite of their enmity, in spite of all the times Theon had looked down on him for being a bastard. She talks about her Queen’s heart, but she doesn’t know Jon’s heart. Noone here does, not really, except Arya. But what do all these lords and ladies care? They’re only here to know who will govern the city, they don’t know the man she knows, they don’t care whether he lives or dies. She only has Arya on her side, Samwell and Ser Davos possibly. Bran will only take Jon’s side if it fits his own agenda, if he thinks it is the way it is supposed to be. If Bran knows something of Jon’s fate, he does not reveal it. 

Sansa swallows her rage and listens, trying to think of a way to contradict Theon’s sister and bring the other lords to Jon’s side.

"Let the Unsullied give him what he deserves," snarls Greyjoy. "Say another word about killing my brother and I’ll cut your throat," intervenes Arya, glaring at the Ironborn, causing everybody to tense at the threat. Let them be afraid of us, thinks Sansa, let them fear the wolves. If they think we will stand meekly by as they cut yet another Stark’s head, they are fools.

Ser Davos stands, trying to placate the parties. He tries to negotiate with the Unsullied, as they have all agreed when they met before the gates of the city. Sansa nods at him encouragingly, smiling kindly. This is Jon’s friend, Jon’s advisor and, as fallible a job as he had done, she knows he cares for her cousin. If he can help keep his head on his neck, he will. 

“-There is land in the Reach. Good land," he tries, "The people that used to live there, are gone. Make it your own. Start your own House, with the Unsullied as your bannermen. We’ve had enough war. Thousands of you, thousands of them! You know how it ends. We need to find a better way!" 

"We do not need payment,“ interrupts Grey Worm, thrown off. "We need justice."

These people are soldiers, Sansa knows. They are not that different than Jon himself. They cannot be bought or bribed, just as he cannot. They are loyal. No matter how mad or cruel Daenerys really was, she saved these people, just as Jon rescued the Free Folk, and to this day they are faithful to him. They would start another war for him, even with the risk of extinction threatening them. The Unsullied are no different. They only want revenge, Sansa knows this. And yet she has hope, It is a foolish hope, just as foolish as Jon’s was when he could not let go of little Rickon.

"Jon Snow cannot go free," concludes Grey Worm. Ser Davos is at a loss for words and sits down in defeat. Sansa lowers her eyes, searching for something to say, for something to do. They have tried with threats and with kindness, both with no results. Deep down, she knows they aren’t going to win this. Then she hears Tyrion’s voice.

"It’s not for you to decide," he says tiredly, directed at Grey Worm, who immediately barks at him to shut up.

His loss of control is unprecedented and Sansa silently prays for Tyrion to be careful, for the ice they are threading on is thin and, she knows without a doubt, someone pushed Jon into this suicide mission and it was Tyrion. Jon may be stubborn but there are a few people he listens to and the dwarf is one of them. Sansa is not without fault herself. If she had tried to reason with Jon, instead of constantly going against him maybe… maybe he wouldn’t be in a prison cell now. If they had worked together, if they had made a plan together maybe they could have outsmarted them all. Except that Jon’s feeling for Daenerys got in the way. To watch him fall in love with the Dragon Queen was hard on her. It had hurt Sansa to know that she would take him away, away from his home, from the North. That she had quickly become the woman whose words he listened to the most. 

Sansa clears her thoughts and tries to focus on the former Hand of the Queen’s words.

"-Jon committed his crime here,” Tyrion is saying "His fate is for our king to decide. Or our queen.“

"We don’t have a king or queen," comments Lord Royce.

“You’re the most powerful people in Westeros. Choose one.“

* 

"I can’t believe you‘re going to let them send him to the Wall! Who are you? He’s your brother!"

Sansa stands at the window in the King’s Chambers, her back to her brother and sister. In her years as a hostage in King’s Landing she had dreaded to be called to this room in the night, as Joeffrey had threatened to do at her first wedding. Now her little brother is the new king of Westeros and, while it was agreed Jon would not be sentenced to death, Bran has accepted as a term of surrender that Jon be left to spend the rest of his days with the Night’s Watch. What is it that crowns do to men, that they would sell their own brother to the best buyer for a piece of land? And yet Bran has no brothers or sisters, not really. Not anymore.

"He’s not my brother. He’s our cousin" points out the newly appointed king.

"We’re not going to let them do this, right? Right?" asks Arya, pacing through the room. She stops near Sansa, who is still watching outside. "We can’t," Arya insists "He saved all of us. He’s not a murderer. She would have killed us all."

"You heard the Unsullied. He cannot go free," says Bran.

"You’re going to pardon him, then. Once they are gone." Arya replies, sounding slightly desperate. She cannot bear it, the thought of Jon alone, cast away from his own home.

"That is not his path," answers Bran.

"What do you mean?", asks Arya impatiently. Sansa turns her neck silently, letting him know she is listening.

"Just that. It’s not his path."

"What is his path, then?" Sansa finally turns around and watches him. She knows Bran will not alter things, not when he can feel the equilibrium of the world shift. "To lead the Free Folk? Is that his destiny?"

Bran only stares at her.

Arya huffs and turns to her. "We can help him escape. He can come with me.”

Sansa looks at her with sadness. That’s not Jon. He does not run, he would never run from his punishment, no matter what. He would let them take his head without a word. If they try and help him escape he might not let them. "We cannot. We’ll only cause a war," she answers.

"I don’t care,“ argues her younger sister. "Jon would do it for us. He would never give up on us. I’ll wage them a war if that’s the price for Jon’s freedom. He has done his time at the Wall, and they killed him. His watch is ended. We can beat them if we want to."

We cannot, thinks Sansa. Even if she were willing to start another war for Jon, they would never win. The North has lost so many. So have the Unsullied and the Dothraki, but their numbers are still greater. And while they lack a queen to lead them and their dragons, they are still lethal fighters. Who hold a city. She ignores Arya.

"Will he be safe?" she asks Bran. "Will he be alright?"

"He will serve his purpose," replies Bran. "I cannot reveal how, for there are different paths, but he has a destiny. As we all do."

"Will I ever see him again?" she asks her brother, as she feels her eyes tearing up. "Can you tell me that at least?"

"You will see him twice again before you die. Once today."

He turns to Arya who’s glaring at him. He seems to ask if she wants to know the same. She just shakes her head in anger and leaves them, not looking back once.

* 

They meet Jon at the docks. This is where she has to say goodbye before they are parted, for who knows how long. She has sent a letter to the Watch, warning them of Jon Snow’s expected arrival. She has asked them to let the Free Folk know, in the hopes that Jon might be greeted by a friendly face. Despite her heart breaking, she hopes he will leave for the wild North he knows so well, where he can be with the people he saved, who love him and trust him. She knows if he leaves he will not come back, the North calls for him too strongly. Even now, it is in his grey eyes, in his dark and wild hair, finally untied and free, and in his deep broken voice, he is as wild as Ghost. He looks at her with her father’s eyes, his uncle’s, and she feels like a child again. 

She asks for forgiveness and for the first time since they reunited at Castle Black, he does not give it. He tries to give it to her, but he’s still Jon and he won’t lie. Still he loves her, she knows that, which is what makes it worse. Even with all the love he has for her, he cannot find it in himself to forgive her.

Jon is at a loss for words for a few moments but lastly he looks to the side, he smiles in a way that is both bitter and proud and says: “The North is free thanks to you.” 

Yes, she thinks, but you are not. Was it worth it? They should have fought together, they should have been together. He never should have gone South. Her throat feels tight, as she replies "But they lost their King." 

"Ned Stark’s daughter will speak for them. She’s the best they could ask for," answers Jon with kind eyes in that typical hoarse voice of his.

She can’t wait anymore and she hugs him so he will not see her break. When she feels his arms go around her, she desperately tries to learn his shape by heart, to impress the feel of his body encasing her in her own memory. This is the last time, she tells herself, the last time he will hold me. And then she has to let go or she never will. She steps back as his arms lower and lets him say goodbye to Arya. She knows how special their bond is. She never had this with him, this understanding and this easiness that they share. Arya and Jon have their own little secrets, their own private jokes and this infinite and unconditional love between them, that she can never hope to have with him. Not anymore.

She quietly watches as he dries a tear on Arya's face and wonders why she could never let him be aware of how much she loves him. How can she stand here and not tell him she loves him and that she doesn't want him to leave her? Does he even know? As she loses both Arya and Jon to their destinies she knows not when she will feel their warmth again. For as cold as the North is, there is nowhere warmer than with them.

Jon kneels in front of Bran, ever the obedient subject. He ought to be the one everybody kneels to, and his own blood sends him to freeze to death at the Wall. And even now, at the gates of his freedom, Jon bows and apologizes. "Your Grace," he begins with a short breath, his strength wavering, "I'm sorry that I wasn't there when you needed me."

Bran is Bran again for just a moment and gives Jon the only gift he can offer: purpose.

"You were exactly where you were supposed to be. As you are now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my discord channel, we can talk about fics or stories of books or the fandom in general: https://discord.gg/Dkfpfc


	2. Tell me about a complicated man, Muse...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey Worm sails East and Jon sails North. Or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this new chapter intrigues you. I will try to update in a week if I can. I've got this big complex plan for this story, I'm kind of afraid myself. I don't do things halfways, I either don't write at all for years and years, or I come up with an impossible epic poem.
> 
> The chapter title is still from the Odyssey, and I think I will keep this up, I rather like the idea. Any of you has guessed the meaning behind the story title "A Sunset Rhapsody"? Let me know.

“Yea, and if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep,  
even so I will endure…  
For already have I suffered full much,  
and much have I toiled in perils of waves and war.  
Let this be added to the tale of those.”  
― **Homer,** _ **The Odyssey**_

Torgo Nudho stands on deck and grimly stares at Jon Snow, as he makes his way to the ship that will sail north. Their eyes meet for mere moments until Snow lowers his in shame. As much as he hates the Westerosi, the man's regret is apparent, and there is no real justice in taking the head of a man who already wishes to be dead. Let him be of use where there is lack of labour, where he can still fight for the land he cares so much for, he killed his lover for its sake. When Torgo Nudho thinks of Daenerys, he feels a pain in his guts that he cannot describe. Missandei would know how to explain it. Now that they are both gone, he feels like talking is too big an effort. Before, he talked little. Now even a word is too much. He won’t speak the Common Tongue anymore, he finds that he cannot. Not since Jon Snow’s sentence. It has drained him of any will to speak.

As Jon Snow disappears in the crowd of Northmen, Dothraki and Unsullied, Torgo Nudho knows the difference between them. They both loved a woman, but he was the faithful one. He used to be the bravest, and now he’s the most faithful. Snow betrayed his love, and maybe he was bravest for it. No matter how many children burnt, Torgo Nudho would never kill the one he is loyal to. And now Torgo Nudho sails for the Island of Naath, where butterflies colour the sky, and Jon Snow sails for the Ice Wall, where men grow old in cold rooms. That is the difference. Torgo Nudho goes home, where Missandei of Naath was born, and will protect her peaceful people.

His first mate approaches him from behind and he sighs. Westeros will soon be far away, and so will Jon Snow.

 _"Valar issi va se lōgor_ , " says his man. They are ready to sail.

 _"Sȳz_ ," he answers with newly found resolution " _Ilon solji va ājon Naath"_

He turns and goes to stand at the ship’s wheel, as he oversees his crew unwind the binds. They sail East.

*

He has traveled on finer ships. His room is cold and small, the furniture is essential and there is only one small window, but Jon doesn’t really care. He looks from the shadows at the thin ray of light and watches the tiny dust particles that float in it. He tries to catch them with his hand, but when he makes a fist, it’s hollow. He feels hollow, like he doesn’t even exist anymore. And he doesn’t really. Just as his name, he doesn’t count. There will be no one waiting for him, no one looking for him. He will soon be just an old crow who was king for a while. And what a king. A king with no supporters, with no crown, with no right. A king with no heir.

He can’t believe he almost got everything he wanted. A woman he could love, a powerful, beautiful and brave queen who loved him back. He remembers a time, not long ago, when he fantasized about marrying Daenerys. Ruling together, being happy together, starting a family. He remembers those moments together in her bed, as he finished inside of her, when he would imagine she’d soon come to him to tell him her womb was quickening. He hadn’t shared that wish with her, not ever, because the war raged around them and he did not really think she would ever want a child with a bastard. And yet, he thinks he knows, she would have wanted it. A child with him. Even after she found out about him, she still wanted him, she still loved him, no matter that his existence threatened her claim. As much as she hated that he was the true heir, she still loved him and wanted him by her side.

As did he.

How blind he had been. She had morphed into something dangerous before his eyes and he could only see the woman he loved in there. Until it was too late. It is only now that he understands Jaime Lannister.

Kingslayer. That’s what he has become. A queenslayer, to be correct.

And a kinslayer.

He shuts his eyes, desperation clutching painfully at his guts, cutting his breath for a moment. The lulling of the ship soothes him, as he looks for less painful thoughts, and his mind goes to Sansa and Arya. The way they had both looked at him with tears in their eyes, as yet another man they loved was forcibly taken away from them. He covers his eyes to stop the burning and tries to smile at their naivety. They won’t miss him for long. They are both too strong and as much as he loves them, his presence only ever threatened their freedom. Because he is a man, because he was king. They will learn they don’t really need him and they will soon focus on the tasks that await them, may it be ruling the North or exploring new horizons. He sees their bright future and, as he smiles, he cries. For all the times he won’t be there to watch them succeed, and the times he wasn’t there in the past.

He swallows his own tears and shuts his tired eyes again. The sun will set soon as they have been sailing for the whole afternoon. There are not many men aboard. The captain is a braavosi man, with kind eyes and salt and pepper in his hair and beard. He commands a small crew, and the only guests are he and his escort, five men in total. The men who are escorting him sleep on his same floor, and up till now only one of them has seemed to not hate him. He showed up at Jon’s door with dinner and wine, and told him it’s better if he stays in his room. His brothers are not the kind sort and don’t want any problems. Jon nodded quietly before closing the door. He grabs the goblet from the small circular table and thinks if he cannot die, he can at least sleep. He drinks the whole cup in a few seconds and at last he lays on his cot, his heavy head resting on his wrist, and watches in enchantment the strange dance the tiny particles of dust draw in the light. As the sea lulls him to sleep, he wonders if that is how the gods see men, tiny weak creatures pirouetting around, with only air to catch them if they fall.

*

From his wooden chair he watches as a group of horse lords enter the chosen one’s room. His body is pliant in his drugged state, he wakes not, as they lift him from his bed and drag him through the narrow wooden halls and down the squeaky stairs. They leave his body in a dark cell and lock the door. The boy has a long journey ahead, he knows, but he has seen it, he will end up right where he’s needed. Only at the sunset will ice and fire meet again.

*

When his eyelids flutter open there is no light creeping through the window. His back is aching where he lays on the cold damp wooden floor. Wait, did he fall off the bed? His eyes slowly adjust to the darkness surrounding him and the first thing he notices is, there is no window. Not anywhere. This is not his room. Also he’s definitely on the lowest deck, judging by the way the ship oscillates. It feels as if he were on a floating raft. Jon is normally a light sleeper and now he feels way too groggy. Something is wrong. He slowly sits up and blindly searches for Longclaw with his hands, but it’s not there. His cloak is nowhere to be found. He stands on wobbly legs and feels around with his hands, trying not to stumble. He touches a metal bar with his left hand and after a few second he grasps a second metal bar with his other. He’s in a cell below deck.

He has no idea how long he’s been there. How could he have not woken up? He shakes the bars, trying to break the door or to alert someone, but it seems no one can hear the racket and the door remains locked.

“No use, boy,” comes a sardonic voice from the shadows, a strange accent stressing the words in an unusual way. Jon turns towards the voice and sees a man sprawled on the floor in a cell exactly like his own, a shoulder propped up against the bars. He knows the man. It’s the Captain.

Jon blinks a few times as fear sets in his bones.

“Captain, what happened?” he asks.

“I think you call it ambush, boy,” answers the Braavosi, distractly knocking his fingers on the metal bars.

“A mutiny, you mean?” quizzes Jon. “Your crew turned on you?”

“No, boy. My crew would never betray me. Good sailors. It was the Dothraki,” claims the man, and to Jon it makes no sense. What is he talking about?

“The Dothraki are here? On the ship?”

“Of course, boy. They’re here for you.”

“They? How many are there?”

“I count about 20,” replies the man calmly. His bleak demeanor sends Jon in a rage. What is he saying? Is this a game to him?

“Just tell me what happened. What do you mean, they’re here for me?”

The man turns to look at him. Even in the shadow, Jon can see his eyebrows go up, before he sighs. “They ambush us. They tell me to change direction, that you don’t go to the Wall anymore, boy. They want to sell you, for horses and other slaves. You’re pretty and from the Sunset Lands. You fetch a good price. That way you pay for killing their Khaleesi. It’s easy, boy, yes?”

Jon falls quiet, his stomach growing queasy. “What about my escort, then?”

“They kill all the crows. I think one let them on the ship. Doesn’t matter now.”

 _No_ , Jon thinks, _I guess it doesn’t_.

“They kept you alive, though. Why?”

“I am best captain in Braavos, and Dothraki can’t sail shit. I am useful. Like you, boy,” says the man and he grins at him.

“I’m not a boy,” replies Jon, and for a moment he’s North, and Ygritte is laughing at him. He thinks he can hear the gods join her.

“No, I know who you are, boy. You was a king. And now you’re not. You was a crow, and now you’re not. I can call you something else, but I don’t think you like it better,” answers the man with a smirk. Jon tends to agree, so he lets it go.

He lays his forehead on the cold metal and breathes. He has one last question, but he fears he can guess the answer.

“Where are we sailing to?”

The Captain raises an eyebrow at him. “East, boy, but you know that already. The Free Cities. Tyrosh, boy.”

Yes, they are definitely laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short dialogue in Valyrian should be close to what was said in 8x06. I consulted the High Valyrian Vocabulary here -> https://wiki.dothraki.org/High_Valyrian_Vocabulary  
> as well as this translator -> https://lingojam.com/EnglishtoValyrianTranslator  
> I'm a sucker for foreign languages so it was fun, though it's probably all wrong. Also writing foreign accent is hilarious.
> 
> By the way, if my grammar or my style isn't perfect it's because I am not a native English speaker, I am Italian. Still I hope it's not too noticeable.
> 
> I will try and come up with the next chapter soon. Let me know what you think for now. Not much happened that differs from the finale yet. Just wait and see.
> 
> Next chapter's preview:
> 
> _The maid’s smooth her right sleeve, caressing the Tully fish scales that travel down her arm. Sansa raises her hand. She’s ready. This is her turn, at last. No man leading her to a seat, no intended waiting to cover her shoulders with his own coat, to give her a name that doesn’t belong to her. There are no monsters here. This is her home and her people await her. With a last look to her reflection, she leaves that girl behind, the last one to do so._
> 
> my twitter account, I usually post updates, or videos there: https://twitter.com/julesddarksist1


	3. by night she would unravel all she’s done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets some news

For him I tremble and fear, lest he should suffer something,

either from those amongst the people where he’s gone,

or on the sea: for many enemies are devising snares against him,

desiring to kill him before he comes to his paternal lands

**Homer, _The Odyssey_**

Sansa watches her own reflection in the mirror and she goes back to the day of her first wedding. She hears Shae’s calm and patient voice whisper to her that she looks beautiful. It’s Shae’s hands that brush her red hair, not as carefully as they should. She had felt so alone at the time and her foreign maid was her only confidant. She never knew what happened to her, after Ser Dontos helped her escape her fine and perfumed golden prison. This reminds her of the Hound, calling her a little bird. He had been right about that and so many other things.

Her maids carefully help her get in her new grey dress. She has sewn it herself and has poured her very soul in it. The colour of course was chosen for her House. On the gown she has sewn an intricate design of crimson leaves, to honour the Godswood, and Bran. Her chest plate has a metal pattern of branches which she created with the weirwood trees in mind. The hug her chest, protecting her heart. Over her shoulders, her maids lay an asymmetrical cloak, which she styled after Arya’s, and before her, Father. She vaguely remembers her father walking in front of her, his cloak hanging lower on one side. The neckpad, attached to the cloak, is her favourite part. The beaded head of the direwolf is hidden in a coat of black furs. That can only make her think of Jon, in his black Night’s Watch furs. How beautiful he looked when he left, dark eyes as sad as she’s ever seen. She shuts her eyes and tries to picture his face, standing on the battlements of Castle Black, surrounded the friendly eyes of the Free Folk, there to welcome him home. His face looks sharper in her mind’s eye. It’s harder, all of his emotions tightly reined in. He feels lonely, she knows, and fractured, his pack scattered around the country, the last of his blood far away from him. Sansa knows the call of the pack, and she knows the pained howl of the lone wolf. She hears it at night, in her dreams. Though in the case of her dreams it’s more of a chocked whine and she can’t help but think it’s Ghost’s strangled cry. Does it mirror Jon’s pain, she wonders. Did she let him go when he needed her the most?

A handmaid smooths down her right sleeve, caressing the Tully fish scales that travel down her arm. Sansa raises her hand. She’s ready. This is her turn, at last. No man leading her to a seat, no intended waiting to cover her shoulder with his coat, to give her a name that doesn’t belong to her. There are no monsters here. This is her home and her people await her. With a last look to her reflection, she leaves that girl behind, the last one to do so.

*

The first to ever hand Tormund a written letter was Jon Snow. The little Crow passed it to him, forgetting in his rage that his friend could not read. The Free Folk hate the written word, they tease it whenever someone mentions those old southern tomes full of strange symbols. They say probably some horse shat on the paper and them kneelers pretend to read it aloud, noses up in the air as they recite some made up story, so as not to smell it too close. No one would laugh though, when Mance got some secret letter from his spies in the South. Mance would stare at all those ink spots and make a worried face, maybe give some orders and that would be it. He never asked Tormund’s opinion about any of it. Not Mance, he liked to do his thinking alone and he didn’t really need Tormund’s input on most things.

Even when he died, he decided on his own, and Tormund never got the chance to tell him to surrender. As if.

When Jon read that Bolton cunt’s letter, Tormund was at his left and he could see his friend’s ear redden in outrage. As he did when Mance would read his fancy words, Tormund kept his mouth shut and let Snow do his thing. He doesn’t think he would like reading, even if he could. Which he can’t. He’s good at other things, Tormund’s aware of that. Hunting, fucking. Killing, he’s best at that really. Anyways, Jon finished his reading and gave him the letter, turning to his appalled sister. Tormund felt weird holding that paper for Jon, as the former Lord Commander argued with the redhead, but also strangely important. He looked at the meaningless signs a hundred times back then, and it didn’t really help Jon at all, but Jon wanted him to see, and Tormund saw.

As he stands on Castle Black’s battlements, Tormund unfolds the piece of paper in his hands. It’s all creased because he has looked at it many times, since the Maester’s steward brought it to him. Because it was addressed to him, the boy said. It’s a real letter, and there’s a crimson little wax wolf on it. Tormund has only seen two letters in his life, this one included, but he knows enough, the wax thing makes it important.

This one was written to him by Sansa Stark. He traces the place where he guesses the signature is. When the boy gave him the little scroll, Tormund was stunned for a moment before thundering after him, nearly knocking him down when he stopped upon noticing he was being followed. “I can’t read, you fool,” Tormund snarled at him. “What’s it say?”

Nearly shaking the kid took the paper from his hands and read it out loud for him.

Tormund doesn’t need to read it, for he knows the words by heart.

_Dear Tormund,_

_I hope this finds you well. I am writing to you from King’s Landing. The city is in ashes, destroyed by Daenerys Targaryen, who burnt thousands of people alive. Because of her actions against the people of King’s Landing, Jon has murdered her after the battle and has been imprisoned by the Unsullied, who have summoned me and all the Lords of Westeros to discuss Jon’s fate. It was decided, against my wishes, as well as my sister’s, that Jon be sent to the Wall, to join the Night’s Watch again. My brother Bran has been crowned King of Westeros and had no choice but to accept this terms, as the Unsullied would not let Jon go unpunished. It was this or another war. Jon’s ship is set to sail North as soon as possible, and he will soon be joining you at Castle Black, in the hopes that my letter finds you still there. I beg of you to await his arrival. I know he would be gladdened to find a friendly face welcome him back and I know you would want to see him again. Please, take care of him for me, if he lets you._

_Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell_

Tormund’s blue eyes skim over the pretty handwriting one last time and raise to the gates. He received this a moon and a fortnight ago, and those gate have yet to open. He’d gone to the Maester about it a couple days ago, a fairly young redhead from a place called Oldstones, and has asked how long it takes to travel by ship from King’s Landing to the Wall and the chained man had looked at him with a timid frown on his face. “It should take no longer than 2 moons, my friend. About two fortnight from King’s Landing to White Harbor and then from there to here one more moon if they ride hard. That’d be easier if Eastwatch hadn’t been destroyed, of course. Either way, Jon Snow should have been here already. That raven cannot have travelled for less than 8 days,” had said the Maester. And yet there’s still no sign of him. 

He feels something wet on his hand and looks down. The white beast has not left his side since Jon left for the South. Ghost is as quiet as he’s always been, but Tormund knows animals and he can feel the direwolf’s nervousness. Beasts, magical ones even more, feel when something is wrong. And something is definitely wrong.

He's going to do something he’s never done before.

He’s going to write a letter. To the Queen in the North.

*

Three days and nights have passed since her coronation and Sansa feels no weariness until she’s alone in her chambers and she soaks in a steaming bath. She has dismissed her handmaid after having her thoroughly wash and brush her auburn hair. Only then she does she let her eyelids droop and rests, allowing her mind to forget about cultivation plans, trade agreements and rebuilding plans. And suitor, that is a constant thorn in her side. No lords have openly approached her, but she sees the looks, hears the rumours, knows what they want. It won’t be long before Lord Royce comes to her with a proposal. She’ll refuse of course, but she can’t just brush it off with no apparent thought. Men’s dignity is a weak little thing, and a resentful one at that. She has to at least pretend to think about it. She’ll put it off until they get tired of waiting. She’ll never marry again, she knows.

Twice was more than enough. Marriage has brought her nothing if not humiliation and pain, if it helped her grow stronger. It has taught her more than she could ever have learned if she’d stayed a maiden. Both her marriages had taught her different things. With Tyrion she’d learned that you don’t have to love a person to have a partner. With Ramsey, well, that you can hate a person and still do with them what you should with a loved one and survive. Not that she’d ever done that with a loved one.

She doesn’t think she could ever love a man that way. She’d loved the men in her family, of course. Father, Robb. Bran she still loves, but there’s nothing of the boy he used to be there. It’s a love that has turned into nostalgia. She used to love little Rickon, in the way you can love a little child when you’re a child still. She never got to know him as a young man. She knows not what he was like or how his voice sounded, she doesn’t know his smile, or if he had any flaws – the sort of things you grow to love in a closed one. She used to have that with Jon though.

Her love for Jon was an everchanging one. It wasn’t steady as it was with Father, or Robb. It came with a warm wind, and it went in a raging storm. But it was always there, floating the air around them. It was there when they stood close on the battlements, or when they dined together, and she recognized it in the quietness, in the warm comfort they gave each other when no one else could see them. It was there all the times they’ve said goodbye. She knows that love by heart, she feels it in her throat, so great the need to voice it to him, it causes her pain. It’s a resentful love, one that plays the victim. How dare you leave me, it accuses, and it comes in at the eyes.

And when they fought, it muted into something very similar to hate. She feels it in her lungs, and it leaves her breathless and it travels down to her loins. It twists there, leaving her flushed, shivering, as if feverish. She can’t reason with that love, so little sense it makes. She doesn’t even want to think about it.

No matter how mad she was at Jon, she’d never known a man the way she knows him. She’s learned every raise of his eyebrows, every gesture of his hands. She knows his voice and how it grows loud when he’s in command, and hoarse when he’s at ease, or feeling sad. She knows his eyes, and how honest they are. She loves his eyes the most. She shuts hers and exhales, his face a blurred image in her forced blindness, all else disappears. Slowly she slides her right hand from the rim of the tub, down the her waist and then down, down, down until darkness is heavy and thick, and she can’t see him, but she can touch him. He touches her too, his hands dipping into her sex. She touches herself harshly, quickly and quiet as the night she peaks, faster than she ever did before.

She relaxes for a moment, stretching out her limbs. Next she stands, leaving the water, now turned cold. As she dries herself, her hair she’s distracted, not really paying attention to what she’s doing, not really thinking about anything. With a slight, almost unnoticeable sense of shame, she gets under her pelts and falls into a deep peaceful slumber.

*

In the morning, her maids wake her and clothe her sleepy body and she lets them, yawning a few times. There is a knock to her door and Lisa, her maid from the Rills, goes to open it, as her other maid hurries to finish dressing her up.

Sansa hears Lord Royce’s deep voice, speaking in low tones, and after a second Lisa comes back.

“It’s Lord Royce, Your Grace. A letter from the Wall.”

Sansa looks down, to make sure she’s fully covered, and has Lord Royce quickly ushered in. The man bows to her and as he hands her the scroll he says “So sorry to bother you this early, Your Grace, but I thought this might come from Lord Snow. That you might be waiting to hear from him, I mean.”

“You thought well, my Lord. Thank you.”

He waits silently as she unrolls the paper, holding her breath, and reads the short message.

She must go over it a second time before it sinks in.

“It’s not from Jon,” she tells him, feeling slightly faint. She raises her eyes and looks at his frowning face. “It’s Tormund Giantsbane. He says Jon never showed up at the Wall. He’s sent some scouts looking for him and his travelling companions, but no one has seen them.”

She looks down at the paper in her hands again, searching for more answers, but finds none.

  
“He’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially looking for a BETA. As I have previously mentioned, I am not a native English speaker, and though I am proficient at it, sometimes I might need someone who can correct or make my writing smoother. Let me know if you're up for the job.
> 
> This might need some correcting, but I wanted to post, cause it's still a transition chapter, only there to show how time passes, in the most realistic way possible, and Sansa's personal growth, away from her family. How not only her status has changed, but also her sexual identity.


	4. tell me how he wandered and was lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's initial time in Tyrosh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @manixzen is going to beta read my chapters from now on. All mistakes will be mine.  
> I invite you all to check out their fanfiction  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023307/chapters/52557616  
> I've read one chapter and it's a work of art.  
> Enjoy this very long chapter.

_Some things you will think of yourself,...some things God will put into your mind_

**_Homer_ ** _, The Odyssey_

_“Where are you gonna go?” asks Edd gravely. He’s half resigned, half angry._

_“South,” answers Jon, not managing to hold back a nervous sigh._

_“What are you gonna do?” interrogates his friend. He does not understand, and Jon knows he never could. For he hasn’t seen the dark place Jon stepped into when his men killed him. He cannot blame Edd for wanting him to stay._

_“Get warm?” tried Jon with a lopsided smile._

Jon feels the irony as he kills a mosquito on his sweaty arm with a quick slap. He dries the drops of sweat falling from his nose onto his moustache with a hand, but it’s pointless. Tyrosh is the hottest of the Stepstones and the Harbour District is the most humid and the dirtiest part of the island.

Jon has learned the name of the districts thanks to his cell mate, a boy from the Island of Naath who knows seven languages, among which the Common Tongue and High Valyrian. He says that the people of Tyrosh speak a girlier and less graceful version of the ancient eastern language, but it’s pretty much the same. The boy listens to everything and learns fast, faster than Jon, whose understanding of the language is practically non-existent. The boy is happy to share his knowledge with him. He’s kind and he speaks with a quiet voice and Jon listens to his funny inflection and tries to let it calm his own nerves. He would have thought after all he’d been through in the past, what with dying and all, he wouldn’t ever be afraid of anything again. He was wrong about that. Jon is scared, because he knows what’s to come.

Any day now, one of the Tyroshi slave traders who have bought him from the Dothraki will come and tell Jon to get ready and he will be sold to a Master. He has been in this cell for about a month now, and his selling should have happened weeks ago, but slave traders won’t put on the stand a damaged slave.

Since his ship landed, Jon has tried to break free and run three times. Once when the Dothraki came to get him out of his cell and off the ship. When the iron door had unlocked and the biggest of them, Iggo, had come inside to grab him and force him out, Jon tried to fight. He’d kneed the savage’s crotch and punched his chin, causing him to loose his footing for a few moments. Just as he’d managed to get himself out of the cell, other two horse lords were already on him, and beat him to a pulp. Jon managed to get a few kicks in, but he was weakened from the journey and there was nothing he could do to best the savages. The bruises from that night have now disappeared but he has managed to get himself a couple more when he tried to kill one of the slavers while his hands were tied. Ten days after Iggo, who had become all the more vicious since his balls had been bruised, and the other Dothraki exchanged him for ten horses and a girl slave, the man who had traded him came to get Jon to give him a wash and see if he could be sold already. He and two other slaves had Jon enter a tub and quickly scrub himself in front of them. Embarrassment clouding his judgement, Jon didn’t waste a moment to try and drown the Tyroshi slaver. As his purple beard coloured the water, Jon kept the men’s head underwater for ten full seconds before one of the slaves hit Jon on his head with a wooden stool, knocking him out. Just before losing consciousness Jon managed to get a glimpse at the furious and sputtering face of the slaver, who looked a lot like a wet cat. The sight was almost worth waking up with three broken ribs, several new bruises and a killer headache.

His skin had turned from black to yellow and now it’s quickly fading back to its natural pink. Jon knows what that means. He knows the drill by now. In the last month he’s met five different cell mates, all boys and good-looking, each from a different part of the world, though none from Westeros. He’s the lucky winner. The Naathi he shares the cell with at the moment is called Mazin. It means rain. He’s only one and ten and he was taken from his island when a slaving ship anchored on its shoreline. The boy says this happens often on his Island and that there’s nothing to do but hide, for Naathi are a peaceful people. They can’t fight. Jon listens to Mazin tell him tales of his home, a melancholy in his voice in which Jon recognizes his own. He doesn’t tell Mazin who he is or where he’s from or that he has a family. He can’t bring himself to share that with him, but he smiles at the boy and asks questions about his home and about the languages he speaks. He asks him what the slavers talk about and all he’s gathered is that slave auctions happen once a week in the Market District.

Their cell sits next to other five. It’s a long dark corridor with no windows. It smells terribly and there is no daylight but when the main door at the end opens to let someone in. Sometimes two or three men come in and walk slowly through it, peeking at them through the bars, plotting in Tyroshi. Jon wishes for the day one of them will put his head through the bars to gawk at him. That’ll be the last gawking he does. The slavers never talk to them except for telling them to be quiet. Jon has managed to catch the words for that, as well as “your dinner”. He thinks. From the taste of it, it could also mean pig shit.

Jon has never known boredom the way he knows he these days. Life at the Wall had been far from a feast, but he never had idle hands before. He was always busy doing something, whether it be it cooking and cleaning, sparring or fighting, or sharpening his sword. At the thought of Longclaw a blind rage makes him tighten his jaw and his hands prickle. The barbarians took it from him while he was out and sold it to some tall white-haired man with deep blue eyes. It happened right in front of him on Jon’s first day on the island. With his hands tied and four Dothraki holding him back there was nothing Jon could do as the High Valyrian-speaking man gave three horses for his bastard sword. He felt as someone was skinning him, leaving him naked and vulnerable. He wasn’t a soldier any more in that moment, not with his weapon at the hip.

Boredom makes him think of Longclaw, and Lord Commander Mormont, and the Watch and Tormund and Sam and Ghost. Sansa running into his arms in the middle of the courtyard.

Boredom is detrimental to him.

So he’s taken to watching after his young companion. He watches what he does, and makes sure to spare some of his own meal and water for Mazin. The boy smiles at him and looks at him with a shimmering light in his honey-coloured eyes. Jon knows that look, he’s had another boy look at him with that kind of admiration before. He shakes his head, pushing those memories away as well.  
  


“What are you doing?” he asks the boy, to distract himself.

Mazin sits on the floor, close to the bars, his head leaning on them, his eyes staring at something down the long hall. Two men have come in through the door and are walking down the corridor, stopping after every cell He only turns when Jon speaks to him.

“I am eavesdropping,” he answers, turning back to look out of the cell. Jon smiles slightly. He’s taught the boy that word days ago, when he wouldn’t stop listening to what the slavers were saying. “They’ll catch you eavesdropping,” Jon had softly berated him, causing him to look back with a questioning look in his eyes. “What’s _easdropping_?” he’d asked. Jon had laughed lightly before correcting him and explaining.

The boy's a quick study, that's for sure. He shakes his head at him.

“You’re not supposed to say that,” replies Jon.

“I am not?” asks Mazin, flummoxed.

“No,” Jon answers, settling back on his thin mattress, “eavesdropping is bad. You’re supposed to lie about it.”

Mazin blinks for a moment and then says “Alright, I am not eavesdropping,” before he turns back to do just that.£

Jon chuckles lightly at him, but the boy remains focused on what two slavers are saying. When they reach their cell, Mazin quickly jumps back on his bed and pretends to sleep. After a while the men seem to have reached an agreement on whatever they’re talking about. They turn around and leave, closing the door behind them.

Mazin stays on his bed, staring at the darkness in silence.

“Well?” asks Jon, thirsty for something to occupy his mind. “What did you learn?”

For a few seconds there is no answer. Jon frowns, wondering whether the boy has fallen asleep.

“There’s another market tomorrow,” says Mazin at last, sounding scared. Jon raises his eyebrow.

“Well, we knew that already, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but… They say they’re going to sell you.”

Jon is quiet for a few moments, his stomach clenching painfully. He swallows down his bitterness and decide it’s best to fake indifference.

“Well, we knew that would happen soon, as well, didn’t we?” he asks softly. He hears some sniffling and he sits up.

“None of that now,” he scolds, but he can’t make himself sound stern. He thinks he feels wetness in the corner of his eye.

The boy says nothing and sniffles some more.

“Mazin, don’t. You have to be strong, even if I’m not here.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” whines the boy, and Jon remembers a nine year old boy, begging for his father not to leave him behind. He breathes deeply for a moment.

“Come sit near me,” he says with a sigh.

He hears some shuffling and the boy finally joins him.

“You know I can’t do anything about this,” he starts dryly. “They’re going to do what they want. But let me tell you this. You’ll get out of here soon as well, one way or another. And when you do, you’re going to be smart and take care of yourself. You’re smarter than any boy your age. You’ll find a way out.”

“Not without you,” whispers the Naathi boy brokenly.

“We don’t know what will happen tomorrow. You might even be sold with me. But if you don’t, you will soon. And when you do, you have to promise me you’ll find a way to run. You’ll run and go back to your family. Because they’re waiting for you and they miss you, alright?”

The boy doesn’t answer. Jon can’t see his face in the dark but he can feel his desperation. He berates himself in his own head. He shouldn’t have let him get attached.

“Boy, promise me you’ll be brave and find a way to run. No matter what,” orders Jon, and he knows he sounds like Father in that moment.

_“Please take me with you,” whispers Jon, almost in tears. “I’m nine now and I am better than Robb with the sword. Mikken told me that.”_

_His father looks at him sternly. “You’re not old enough to go to war. This is no game, Jon.”_

_“I know that,” argues Jon. “But I can fight and I’m not afraid!”_

_“Jon, a battlefield is no place for a nine year old, and a Lord’s son at that.”_

_“I’m not your heir. If something happens to me, it won’t matter!”_

_“It’ll matter to me,” replies Ned with a hint of frustration in his voice. “Enough of this, Jon. Heir or no heir, you are my son and your job is to do what I say. Whether I want to or not, I must go and defend our people from the Ironborn. I know my job. It’s time you learn yours.”_

_Jon looks down in contrition._

_“One day you will have responsibilities too and you will understand,” says his Father with a tired voice. Jon peeks at him again._

_“I do understand you have to go but… it’s just… I don’t want to be alone here. With_ her _. She hates me,” whines Jon brokenly._

_Ned sighs and puts a hand on his tiny shoulder, leaning down to be at his height._

_“She doesn’t hate you, son,” Ned says. “She just… She won’t be your mother. But you’re not alone. You have Robb, and your younger sisters. You can’t leave them, or they’d miss you.”_

_Jon breathes in deeply, trying to calm himself._

_“Promise you’ll come back?” he asks, his voice shaking as he tries not to weep._

_“I can’t promise that, boy. But you have to promise you’ll be strong. You’re stronger than anyone I know. And you’ll take care of yourself. No matter what,” orders Ned, and stares at Jon’s dark eyes until he has to nod._

“I promise,” says Mazin, and leans on Jon’s side. It takes him a few seconds, but finally he puts his arm around the boy’s tiny shoulders, trying to give him strength he’s not sure he has. No matter what, he has to be strong.

*

The Grand Bazaar is a northman’s nightmare. Jon has rarely seen so many people steeped in one place when not in battle. The temperature there is so high and his throat so dry he almost feels sick. Though that could be because of his nerves. Upon waking up,. two slavers came to let him out so he could wash himself. This time they all kept far from his reach, whips in their hands. One of the slaves was told to wash Jon’s hair and back. The only reason Jon didn’t fight back was because the weak-looking slave probably had it worse than him. After washing, he was made to wear long white braies and nothing else, which left him shirtless and barefoot. He was held still as an iron collar was put around his neck, locked and attached to the end of a long chain. His hands were tied behind his back and iron circles were put around his ankles, and linked together.

And, looking like a damned beast, they led him out of the slaver’s establishment and straight to the Market District of Tyrosh, namely the biggest and most important among the Free Cities. Jon can see why, letting himself be distracted by the Bazaar’s queer sights and sounds and smells. Jon can see strange looking foods everywhere, people buying small worms and insect as if they were chicken. There are giant cages holding majestic animals, such as elephants and lions and rhynos. On the opposite side, far awat from the exotic animals there is a horse merchant who’s trading curious-looking stallions, their hair striped or unnatural colours such as pink or blue. Jon notices there are all kinds of men: some have Mazin’s honey-like complextion, some as dark ask wood; some have skin as white as pearls and hair as silver as Daenerys; many have coloured hair or beard, be it blue or purple or pink; most look just like him, chained and lost.

Some might sell rare objects, whereas others might sing to a dancing serpent for some gold, but most seem to deal with the most flourishing market. Slaves.

The man who leads him by the leash is short and fat, with olive skin and golden teeth. He leads him quickly to an empty stage. There’s a wooden ladder on the side and he’s made to climb it. There are other seven with him, all men. Two were on the cell next to his, and they are the same complexion as Mazin, though Jon knows not where they are from. One is a redhead and Jon has never seen him before. He looks the same age as him. He might be Westerosi, but Jon can’t be sure. Another one has a very pale complection and doe eyes, and he looks as if he could be eight and ten. He’s strong and lean, like Jon. He must have been a fighter, or a sailor. Two others have very dark skin, both massive, both terrified.

The slave who washed him tethers each of them to a metal bolt on the stage. There’s no way to run from this. There are guards everywhere. Jon gathers they aren’t there just because of cutpurses and thieves. Also live merchandise.

The slaver who held his leash finally steps on the stage, coughing forcefully a couple times to get the people’s attention and starts speaking to them. Jon has no idea what is being said but he thinks he caught the man’s name. It could be Pacco, as he’d heard another slaver before call him that. A group of men have gathered under the stage and listen to the slaver’s speech with interest in their eyes and each time Pacco indicates one of the six men behind him, Jon included, a few of them nod pensively and some stroke their beards with heavily adorned fingers. Jon feels like meat for slaughter and he can barely breath, so thick the anger and the tension in his sore bones.

The slaver stops on the opposite side of where Jon is, at the first dark-skinned man’s side.

Here they are, Jon deducts. This is it.

Pacco speaks loud and mysterious words, as he palpates the slave’s muscled arm and raises his lips to show his teeth. Like a horse, thinks Jon appalled. Just bite it off, he wants to say, but words fail him, and soon a couple men among the potential buyers briefly raise a hand and speak a word. An offer. It’s faster and more clinical than he would have expected. Pacco points to the highest offeror and while the other parties scoff, the assisting slave untethers tethers the newly bought one from the stage and, with the help of a few guards, hands him over his new master. No protests are made, no more than one would make for an onion at a Western market. Jon feels oddly detached to all of this, for the absurdity if it sends him in a state of near denial. He looks at the people off the stage while Pacco presents the other dark-skinned man and quickly sells him to a short Tyroshi man who wears a red tunic and whose stance and demeanour remind Jon of Varys.

The redhead is next and Jon thinks he hears the word Westeros. The man tries to shake Pacco’s hands off and, bound as he is, he ends up almost tripping on himself, causing the public and the slaver to laugh at him. Two guards help steadying him up and the man begrudgingly lets them, but not before Jon can hear him mutter: “Y’all better not unchain me”.

He blinks in surprise, for he knows that accent. The man is definitely a Wilding, though Jon has never met him before. How is that possible? Most of the Free Folk are dead and Jon knows all of them. This one was not one of Hardhome survivors. Could it be that he was captured before Hardhome itself? Jon has no idea how a Wildling ended up here. He stares at him but before he can try and catch his attention, the final offer is made and the Wildling is forcefully led from the stage and handed to his new master, a Tyroshi man who dresses as a merchant, but who has a line of personal slave, all strong and tall, following him. They all step towards the side and keep watching the action, the buyer still looking interestedly at the last the men on the stage.

Jon’s mind runs chaotically and, in his rising panic, he loses contact with his surroundings. People seem to run around him, as he stands still, unable to move, feeling as if everybody in the Bazaar were looking at him. He tries not to lose sight of the Wildling and hopes that one task might help him anchor himself, when the slaver finally reaches him. Jon looks at him and the worlds suddenly rotates too fast around him as the man’s voice slowly becomes muffled. Just as he feels on the verge of fainting, the slaver’s hand takes his arm and slides his hand over Jon’s chest, gliding over his moon-shaped scars. He’s clearly talking about them to his costumers. Jon feels so shocked, he physically can’t move. He just lets the slaver handle him as if he were a doll. His hair get touched and stroked, his lips are raised as well to show his teeth. _Just bite him_ , someone is whispering to him, but he doesn’t recognize it. He’s clumsily made to turn and hands are on his shoulder blade and suddenly down to his hips, and patting his covered backside. He hears someone whistle from afar.

Then he hears a calm and deep voice standing out from behind him.

“Can he be trained as a bed slave?”

Is that the Common Tongue? Jon can’t understand Tyroshi, can he? No, only Mazin can, not Jon.

“Ah, Master Sosruqo. _Jemo ūndetan daor_.“

“I prefer the slave to understand what’s happening, Pacco. It’s easier than to explain it to him later.”

“Of course, Master Sosruqo, but as you know not everyone here speaks the language of the Sunset Lands.”

“I don’t care about anyone else here. Just answer me. Can he or not?”

Jon can feel the nervousness reach a new peak with Pacco, his grip on Jon’s arm getting tighter. Nonetheless the merchant seems to decide to roll with it and answers.

“Of course he can. We don’t get them as pretty as this one every day from Westeros. Lately we haven’t been getting them at all. This one was clearly a soldier, but I’d wager with some well thought training he could… please you any way you want.”

Jon can only hear silence around him for a long time.

“I’ll take him,” the voice unwaveringly claims.

“Master, there is an ongoing auction for him—” Pacco attempts nervously to take back control of the situation.

“Nonsense, you know I can pay you better than anyone here," states the potential purchaser, with a note of impatience in his voice.

“Master Sosruqo, I have a reputation to uphold, I am sure you understand,” argues the slaver, trying to sound contrite.

“I understand you’ve also recently acquired a young Naathi boy. I’ll need him for my collection.”

“You’re well informed of course, but, as of now—”

“Name your price, Pacco. I’ll pay it, whatever it is. This one and the boy.”

Jon holds his breath, his stomach sinking and the taste of puke in his mouth. He starts quavering.

“Very well, then,” concludes Pacco with utter satisfaction, turning Jon back towards the front of the stage and snapping his finger to his slave, who hurries to set Jon free, not quite literally.

With one last act of bravery, Jon raises his eyes and stares at the ice blue eyes of the man who has just bought him, and the unnatural thirst for blood he feels, he muses, can only come from the Gods.


	5. I am the way into the city of woe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally arrives at Master Susroqo's. Arya's lost at sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: To all those who read chapter 4 before it was modified, The name Sharpeis was changed to Sosruqo, firstly because I hated it cause it reminded me of High School Musical and I kept imagining Ashley Tisdale as Jon’s new Master. Secondly my beta-reader shared that it’s also a dog breed. Hence, the need to change it. I got the inspiration for Sosruqo from the name Sosruko It’s derived from Turkic suslä meaning "menacing". This is the name of a trickster god in Caucasian mythology. I changed the k to a q because it’s typical of Tyroshi names.
> 
> Also strictly for TyrellGirl, if you’re reading this, please contact me about the beta-reading offer, my email is in the comments of my announcement from the 13th.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter, and sorry for the wait.

_“Through me, the way is to the suffering city; Through me, the way is to eternal pain; Through me, the way among the people lost. ”_

**_Dante Alighieri,_ ** [ **_Inferno_ ** ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2377563)

Master Sorsruqo’s house is the closest thing to a castle Jon has seen in Essos. Not that Jon has seen anything of Essos, really. They haven’t left Tyrosh, though it looks as if they may have. This area of the island is by far the most lavish, it has nothing to do with the Harbour or the Market district. It’s also not as crowded. As he and Mazin were brought to their newest golden prison, locked in a cage on top of a carriage led not by horses but by slaves, Jon tried to take in as much information as he could. This is the Golden District, Mazin told him, after hearing Sorsruqo giving directions the slaves. It’s populated by three very distinct castes: the richest, probably all of whom are merchants, or sons of merchants; the guards, direct employees of the first and already mentioned group, with orders both to protect them and their property from thieves, or to stop the last and least powerful members of the community from getting out of the district, the slaves.

The slaves Jon saw on the streets of this part of the city looked by far cleaner, healthier and more subdued than those he saw at the market. They all wore satin clothes and most of them also wore golden jewels on their arms, or ankles or their ears. Jon himself looked more like a dirty mutt in that iron cage, his hands and ankles still chained together, and a newly acquired clothe gag to shut him up, after he barked at Sorsruqo to not lay a hand on him or else he’d lose it. It appears the man lacks a sense of humour.

It wouldn’t be that hard, Jon wagers, thinking back on it. He’s taken on bigger men. The man is clearly Tyroshi. He’s got blue hair and a blond beard, which is uncommon in the population. It’s usually the other way around. He’s taller than Jon, but shorter than Tormund. He has young skin, though Jon would say he’s older than he looks. A life being served doesn’t have the same toll on you as it does to spend your life fighting or working the land. Jon has bet Mazin a story about his past that the man’s five and forty. Mazin says he’s eight and thirty. Betting is a friend of boredom, Jon tends to think.

He hasn’t seen the Naathi boy since their first day here, which was two nights ago. Once arrived to Sorsruqo’s house, the cage was taken off the carriage and transported inside, through a long and wide hall, with golden and red tapestry draped on the high marble walls. The figures woven on the fabrics portraying naked man and children in several different poses, all beautiful and smiling. Their cage was brought through a heavy-looking door into an enormous room, also adorned in red and gold, where Jon and Mazin were quickly left out and alone. They remained so for several hours.

Jon remembers Mazin untying his gag with his tiny hands before hugging him, so relieved at being sold together. Jon hugged him in return, cradling the little dark curly-haired head against his naked chest, wishing to protect the child from what he feared was to come for him. His fears turned rational of course, as it always happens with worst fears. In the long and peaceful hours spent in what Sorsruqocalls the playroom, Mazin and Jon looked uselessly for a way out. The door was predictably locked and clearly as heavy as it had looked to him, and there were no windows in the room, except for one on the tall ceiling, the light of day filtering through the heavy bars affixed to it, shutting down every hope for escape. Finally they both sat down on two very comfortable-looking chairs and waited together to find out what was to become of them and trying to focus on what they had learnt of the city and the man who now owned them.

After sunset the door was opened to reveal Sorsruqo himself accompanied by two very tall and burly guards, each armed with a whip and freshly sharpened daggers, and a young long-haired boy about the same age as Mazin, though smaller in stature.

Jon raised and shielded Mazin, and predictably a guard was immediately on his chained body, holding him back by his collar, a dagger already to Jon’s throat. Jon protested to let his young friend be, but everyone seemed deaf to his void threats. Sharpei waited patiently until Jon was in a perfect holdfast to gently approach Mazin. Jon looked frightened as the man crouched in front of the boy, offering him a bowl of water, claiming it wasn’t poison. Mazin’s honey eyes shifted to Jon’s, under the watchful stare of Sorsruqo, and after Jon silently assented in resignation, the boy reluctantly accepted the offered water and drank, causing Sorsruqo to smile at him encouragingly. After that, the man’s intent became painfully clear to Jon. He’d buy the boy’s trust and then use him for his own depravity. He introduced the other boy, Kleo, to Mazin and sent the two boys to their now shared room, followed closely by the second guard. Mazin turned back to look at Jon as the guard crowded him through the door, a question in his eyes. Jon, still held fast, smiled sadly at him, knowing how counterproductive it would be to fight this. At least for the moment. The door shut behind the three of them and that’s the last Jon has seen of Mazin.

Since then things have taken a curvy turn for Jon. 

This is his third day in the playroom. So far it hasn’t been fun. On the first day his braies were taken from him, leaving him fully naked. His hands are still chained, though his feet are not. His gag was taken off on the second day, by Sorsruqo himself. “We won’t keep you restrained for long, don’t worry. Just until we feel a little bit safer”, the man told him kindly, massaging his jaw.

“Good luck with that,” darkly threatened Jon, evading the man’s hands with a harsh shake of his head. That gained him an unexpectedly painful slap to his mouth that left him outraged. He’s quickly learned Sorsruqo doesn’t really do any berating. His teaching method, if one can call it that, is to just let him make mistakes until he gets tired of it and smartens up. Not a bad method, if Jon says so, as he’s used it himself when training the new recruits at the Wall. Effective, if one is not as stubborn as he is.

What it is he’s being taught is not that clear to Jon. A good dose of humility he supposes.

So far, his day is divided into two parts. Three if he counts sleeping.

In the morning, a woman comes and spends the morning with him. Her name is Aleqi and she’s from Myr. She’s a slave herself, she told him. 

“I used to be just like you,” she told him the day before, “until they give me this.” She pointed a finger to her shoulder, where the skin was raised and discoloured. A brand. “I was free woman. Then my father, a merchant, lose much gold. So much he sells me and my little sister. I was angry, and proud and I think I can run. But you can’t. Slavers know if you run, someone catches you soon. I ran once,” she told him, her eyes lost in the painful memories, “I don’t last long. They catch me in three days. I was starved, no gold, no food, no roof. They catch me and bring me back to my master. He brands me. And then I learn. As you learn soon. I am good teacher, don’t worry.”

Since she told him this with her melancholic voice, Jon has only felt sorrow for her. 

She’s forty now, but she must have been a rare beauty, with those big green eyes lighting up her face. She’s white haired, but Jon thinks she must have been blond.

Today Aleqi has him kneel close to the bed and feeds him some exotic fruit. She raises a morsel towards his mouth. Jon hesitates. “Don’t make your Master wait. Quick now. Only food, nothing bad.”

He’s not scared of the action per se, but he hates that he’s made to act as a pet. Apparently he waits too long, for the guard steps in and slaps his mouth. He recoils and makes to attack, but his hands are still chained. Aleqi looks at him disapprovingly.

“Calm now. Anger is useless. Sooner you learn, sooner no one hurts you.”

It’s not even the pain. It’s that stupid slap, it nags at him. He’s being treated like a bad dog.

Aleqi raises her fingers in front of his mouth again and raises one brow at him, encouragingly. “No thinking, just eat,” she says.

Jon sighs and accepts the food with a scowl.

“Next time, you eat faster,” adds the guard from behind him. He’s an asshole, with a stupid look on his face and he probably enjoys each one of Jon’s missteps. Aleqi ignores him and just presents Jon with another morsel. There’s a flicker of stubbornness in Jon that threatens to get him in trouble again, but Aleqi catches it and just puts the food in his mouth. Jon’s scowl seems to amuse her.

The door opens up and without turning around Jon knows it’s Sorsruqo, for Aleqi has stoop up and bowed her head. Jon itches to turn and look at the man, but then thinks better of it. He won’t show interest.

“Good morning, Master Sorsruqo,” greets Aleqi with deference.

“And to you, Aleqi,” answers the man, sounding cheerful. “How is our new acquisition faring?”

“Still learning, Master,” replies the woman with a worried frown, as if blaming herself. Jon feels a tiny pang of guilt.

“I see. Well, I’m sure he just needs a bit more discipline. We can arrange that, Aleqi,” he consoles her with fake kindness.

“Yes, Master Sorsruqo.”

“Now leave us, Aleqi. I would spend some quality time with the slave,” intimates Sorsruqo with a dangerous voice.

The Myrwoman makes a deep obeisance and leaves the room.

Jon is alone with the guard and the Tyroshi man. This is the second part of his day and while the first was no fun, he’d trade them in a second.

Sorsruqo steps close to to Jon and crouches at his side, sniffing him. Jon pretends not to feel insulted and just stays still.

“You stink, boy,” the man says with his Essosi accent, making it sound more an insult than it would in Westerose.

“Well, I haven’t exactly had time to bathe,” Jon argues sullenly, and turns to the man, who’s smiling. He’s clearly amused. He pats Jon’s head, causing Jon to shake him off in outrage. Sorsruqo ignores him, even as the guard slaps Jon’s face.

“Well, let’s remedy that,” replies Sorsruqo clapping his hands.

*

Jon sits in a very large steaming tub in the center of the large room, which has been promptly filled by two men dressed in white long braies and leather collars. 

Neither of them looked at Jon. They went as quietly as they came.

While the guard stands next to Jon, one foot away from the rim of the tub, Sorsruqo sits on a stool behind Jon and takes a bucket, ready to wet his curly hair. When he puts his hand on him, though, Jon thrashes around, trying to get away from the man and, because his hands are tied behind his back, he falls back under the water. He’s quickly helped up by either Sorsruqo or the guard and as soon as air starts to fill his lungs, he’s just as quickly pushed under again. A strong hand keeps him down, as he struggles, water filling his nose, lungs burning.

After what seems to him like a full hour, he’s pulled up again. He struggles for air, but a hand slaps his mouth, stunning him. Again, before he can take a full breath, he’s pushed under the water.

Jon's head this time is held down for longer. His lungs burn excruciatingly as he keeps fighting and flailing. He fights and fights to no avail until he hears Sansa's voice in his head, a warning note to it.

 _Save your strength_ , the voice says. _Let them think they've won, even when they haven't._

For once he listens to her and stills, surrendering to the hands holding him underwater, and it feels amazing to just let go of the fight.

Finally, the hands drag him upwards and air painfully fills his lungs. Sorsruqo' hands are still on him, but he can only think of breathing. Breathing is all there is as his hair is stroked soothingly and his face is dried with a soft linen.

"It's alright. It's over now. You're fine." It takes him a while to realize that's not Sansa's voice.

Sorsruqo keeps caressing him as he breathes in exhaustion. Jon feels shamefully grounded.

"You did good. The sooner you accept it the sooner all of this can end." 

They'd like that, wouldn't they? The thought makes him laugh.

"You think," Jon gasps with a broken chuckle. "You think this is enough? I've been to hell and back… you think this scares me?"

He stares at the man in open defiance, Sansa's sound advice fully forgotten.

The man's face breaks into a smile after a few seconds.

"I bet you were a soldier," he says suddenly. Jon is quiet but does not look down. 

"Yes, with those scars you must have been. I'd wager you were pretty good at it too."

Jon raises an eyebrow at him, still breathing fast.

"Well boy, did you ever fight a man who was bigger than you or faster, or more experienced?" Sorsruqo asks rhetorically. Jon doesn't move, his face as still as stone, his eyes focused on the man's smiling face. 

"Did anyone ever tell you you'd never beat them, that they were too big or smart for you, and you beat them anyways?" 

Jon doesn't answer.

"Well, this is like that," Sorsruqo needlessly concludes with a conspiratorial look in his ocean eyes. "You think I can't beat you, because no one ever really did. But I will, boy. It might not be today, or tomorrow, but just like you beat them, I'll beat you."

Jon's body shakes uncontrollably, though not from the cold.

*

In the end he stops making it harder for himself. Sorsruqo moves the stool to the side of the tub, takes a briddled sponge and runs it way too slowly over Jon's shoulders, then along his arms, as well as he can what with Jon’s wrists being tied behind his back. Then Jon's chest is cleansed thoroughly. Finally when he's feeling annoyingly relaxed, Sorsruqo stands back and Jon is told to stand up in the large tub and face the Tyroshi man. His intimate parts are on display and he can feel himself blush. He stubbornly keeps his eyes on the blue haired man as he thoroughly and amusedly studies his body. Finally the man approaches him again, sitting on the stool in front of him. From his side view Jon can see the guard watching him closely, as he menacingly plays with the tip of his whip. He feels an urge to break Sorsruqo’s jaw, but his restrains remind him he’s not in the position to do anything stupid. He suddenly remembers Sansa telling him he needs to be smarter than father. Than Robb. For a moment her face flashes in front of him and he feels the need to have her arms around him. If there even is a change he’s going to get back home, he won’t waste it. He has to be smarter. He can’t attack them. Not when they don’t trust him not to try something.

He has been a prisoner before, a spy even. He can do this again, he thinks. Let them think he’s reluctantly given up. They don’t know what he’s done, what he’s capable of. He murdered the love of his life, he’s not going to be defeated by these two.

He doesn’t move an inch as Sorsruqo starts carefully cleaning his thighs with a soft linen, and it feels more pleasurable than Jon cares to admit. When the linen gets close to his testicles, he steps back, almost tripping, and the guard holds him up by his arm. Once he’s standing straight again a sharp slap hits him across the face, startling him. “Will you quit that?!” Jon barks at the guard, who just quirks a brow at him. Sorsruqo chuckles at that, causing Jon to turn his angry eyes to the man crouching in front of him.

He’s unfazed.

“Torrjan is under orders to punish you every time you don’t comply. It’s just easier for you to learn, boy,” the man explains to him, “and I strongly suggest that you learn fast, or you won’t like your time here.”

The guard, Torrjan, dares to smirk at Jon.

“Now,” continues Sorsruqo, “whether you like it or not, I have to finish washing you. So stand still, unless you want some more help learning your place.” 

Jon looks at him darkly, but complies, and he feels the warm cloth on his most intimate parts, calmly massaging him. He hates every second of it, but there’s nothing he can do, so he forces himself to endure it. 

“I’ll talk to Aleqi about that look too. Slaves don’t dare look at their masters like they want to kill them if they know what’s good for them,” Sorsruqo berates him, and it sounds as if he were speaking to a child, and not a grown man.

“Aleqi can’t do anything about that. I don’t see myself quitting wanting to kill you very soon, believe me,” Jon answers, trying to leave Aleqi out of this particular conversation. She’s just an old woman and she doesn’t deserve to be punished because of him.

“Oh, I assure you, you will. And Aleqi will find a way to get through to you, since that’s why I bought her. To train my boys, even the most stubborn ones,” threatens Sorsruqo, causing Jon to fall silent and swallow imperceptibly. The linen moves to Jon’s backside, but he’s too thrown off to react or resist. The man threads small circles over his cheeks, his face looking pleased. Caring, even.

“So that’s what you do? Buy people to kneel at your feet and be hand fed. That’s a smart way to spend your gold. Did your mummy not spend enough time with you when you were little?” Jon mocks him, feeling more bravado than he probably should. Torrjan slaps him, waymore harshly than the time before. He’s not surprised this time, though. His lip has split and he tastes some blood in his mouth. It feels good. 

Sorsruqo doesn’t stop his ministrations and Jon can see a smile on the curve of his face. The linen is on his entrance now, and it teases him delicately. Jon tenses up, but to no avail. The man’s hands keep stubbornly and yet gently massaging his hole.Jon feels his muscles relax; his body get warmer.

“What I do is a bit more complicated than that,” replies the man seemingly unfazed. “But I think you should know what’s going on here. I buy people, mostly boys, and I train them to be bed slaves. I teach them how to please my customers, some of whom have very peculiar tastes. I rent my boys to those who pay a lot for them. I’m talking large sums. Sometimes, when I get a very good offer, I sell my slaves to other merchants, mostly to very renowned pleasure houses in the free cities. In brief, I sell pleasure. That’s what I do.”

Jon’s eyes haven’t left the man for a moment. His lips tremble and his gut is twisted, disgust bitter on his tongue. His blood boils with a rage that he only ever saw in Daenerys’ purple irises before.

“I know slavers. I’ve watched my father cut off their heads countless times. And they roll exactly as any other head,” he retorts with a scratchy voice not even he recognizes. “I think I should like to see yours roll very soon. And I think you’ll find I make a much better killer than I’d make a whore.”

Sorsruqo raises his eyes and looks at Jon, ice boring into fire.

“I think you’re clean enough for now,” replies the Tyroshi calmly, retracting his hands from Jon’s body. Then he turns to the guard. “Get him to the pillory. And slap him for that one.”

He stands straight and dries his hands, then he addresses Torrjan again, though his blue eyes remain on Jon.

“I’ll go clear some things up with Aleqi,” he says, before turning and leaving the room.

* 

Day fifty-two.

That’s how long they’ve been at sea. They’ve lost eight men out of sixty-eight to disease, and Arya thinks soon they might lose some more to mutiny. Quality of food is quickly deteriorating, and there’s no sight of land.

She hears the men talk, how the route is wrong, and if they can’t find land, they’ll all die very soon. She can’t do much for the morale, it’s not exactly her best quality. Jon is better at that than her. He’s good at bringing people together, giving purpose; in fact, it’s what he does best. She likes to think that’s what he’s doing now. She hopes he’s somewhere north of the Wall, leading the Free Folk he seems to love so much. She smiles sadly at the thought. If she can’t find land, it’ll be certain she’ll never see him again, because she’ll be dead.

After all she’s been through, it feels anticlimactic that she’s going to die of starvation.

Up until a moon ago she had felt hopeful, sure even, that she would succeed and finally find out what is west of Westeros. She felt like nothing could stop the Nymeria. And then the Captain had told her he could see the beginnings of a dangerous storm from the bridge, and she had to order to steer northwest, so as to keep away from the center of the storm. They barely made a run from it. She saw with her own eyes the black clouds, as black as Drogon, covering for days the transparent sea, making it impossible for them to go back and regain that route. Steering back would only have meant wasting precious time. If only they had known.

It’s been a moon, and two other storms, and they’re headed northwest of Westeros, and Arya fears for herself. She fears for her family. For they will never know what happened to her. No raven would last that far, there is no way for Arya to contact Sansa, or Jon. Maybe Bran will know, he will see her and tell their sister. Maybe Sansa will write to Jon. If Jon is even reachable, wherever he is.

Are they alright? What if they are not and need her help, and they have no way to let her know. No raven can find her. Bran might know her whereabouts, but there’s no way he can send a raven that far. Maybe only a dragon could find her, she thinks bitterly. She’s had enough of dragons for a lifetime.

She looks to the right side of the map she’s laid over the wooden table and spots Winterfell, looking so tiny in comparison to the miles she’s sailed so far. She lays her hands on the map and tiredly lowers her head, trying not to miss home.

Someone knocks at her door.

“Come in,” she says loudly, but doesn’t move, her back to her visitor.

“Princess.”

It’s the Maester. Sansa insisted she take one and she chose him personally. His name is Morgan, and he’s probably the most boring person Arya has ever met. She has tried to stop him from addressing her like that, but each time he refused, no matter how friendly she makes herself sound. Also no matter how dangerous a voice she makes. There’s no reaction out of him, except for a small bow and a quiet: “It’s the only appropriate title for the sister of the King of Westeros and the Queen in the North.” Arya usually rolls her eyes, thinking that must be Sansa’s doing.

Not today tough. Today she’s in no mood for caring about anything that isn’t good news.

“Yes, Maester?”

“We lost other three men in the night, Princess. Dysentery.”

She sighs, closing her eyes. Not today, then.

“Have them thrown in the sea,” she orders. Her eyes settle back on the unfinished side of the map, as a feeling of emptiness settles in her stomach.


	6. To face what I've done and do my time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I hope I will try not to let it happen again. Life got a bit crazy this month. But thank the Gods I have a team of Beta-readers who help me. Thanks especially to Salon_Kitty whose insight give me so so much to work on. And though it's hard, I'm only grateful for it.  
> Enjoy this chapter and let me know what you think.

Jon’s head hangs from the largest hole in the wooden framework he’s just been introduced to by the surly guard.

He’s been moved to a room adjacent to the playroom, the entrance of which was previously hidden by a wooden bookcase. This room is smaller and darker than the other one. On the wall in front of Jon hang multiple chains tied to iron shackles. To Jon’s right, he can see a shelf on top of which lay several objects he cannot name, but which seem to him designed to torture a person’s most delicate parts.  
Some have a phallic shape and vary in length and width. It isn’t hard to figure out their purpose. Some other devices are smaller, and have different materials: some are made of iron, others of leather, some both. Jon wonders if behind the pillory there might be a similar shelf, or other chains.

Jon is not so naive as not to know what Sosruqo intends to do with him sooner or later, but it just feels surreal for him that this is actually happening. His life has been surreal since Sam told him the truth about his birth. And now, all that he’s done, and all he hasn’t done, brought him here. When Tyrion came to his cell to share his sentence with him, Jon felt no anger, no resentment. After all he’d seen in King’s Landing, he couldn’t find the strength to fight for himself, for his own right to freedom. What right did he have, after murdering his own blood and after standing by as she destroyed the capital? Maybe that’s what Bran meant when they were saying goodbye on the docks. Is this where he’s supposed to be? Is this his true punishment? Maybe the Wall wasn’t enough for a kinslayer. Bran must have known what was to come for Jon, and he let it happen, not a word of warning, not to him, not to Sansa and Arya. Maybe he deserves all of this.

He shuts his eyes and swallows down the painful lump in his throat, trying to come back to the present.

The guard has left Jon alone after none too gently locking his wrists and neck in the wooden device. Jon tried to resist the man, but his nudity makes him vulnerable. The guard quickly kneed him between his legs and Jon’s vision blurred long enough that the man had no trouble manhandling him into the pillory.

His testicles still ache from the blow, and yet there is nothing he can do to stop them from hanging freely between his naked legs, his feet held apart by a pair of shackles attached to the floor under him.

Not that he’s able to see any of that. Jon’s back and legs are facing the entrance, and Jon has no way to see what’s happening behind him, so he looks at the wall in front of him, where several candles are lit. He waits for a shadow to warn him of Sosruqo’s arrival or the guard.

In the end, he hears the reverberant rumble of the tall bookcase being shifted and he sees two intertwined shadows on the wall, one of which is by far smaller than the other.

Their steps echo in the otherwise quiet room and Jon struggles, trying to turn his head to see who has just come in, but he just manages to hurt his neck and he hisses as the two figures walk their way to his front and get into his line of vision.

He gapes.

Once again his actions have caused an innocent to suffer. He did this, because of his own stubbornness and stupidity.

Aleqi stands in front of him, her arm held tightly in Sosruqo’s hand. That will be a bruise in the morning. But Jon’s eyes land on her face, where he can clearly see the red sign left by a man’s fist. Her eyes are turned to the floor but Jon can still spot the dried tear stains on her cheeks.

Sosruqo pushes her to the floor. She unresistingly falls to her knees and Jon winces at the sound of her bones cracking against the cold hard stone. He turns his furious eyes to the Tyroshi man, who leaves the woman where she is and approaches Jon, his face expressionless.

Swallowing down fruitless protests, Jon tells himself no amount of threats or begging could make this man leave the quiet woman alone. It rests solely on Jon now.

Sosruqo seems to agree, as he crouches in front of him, his long nose almost touching Jon’s. Their eyes meet, an understanding passing through them.

“You’re not a talker, boy. I like that,” says the man, sending hot breath to Jon’s nostrils, which widen at the sensation. “I think when two people understand each other, there’s no need for many words. Do you agree?”

That seems like a genuine question, the tone Jon would use with an equal.

“I do,” Jon concedes, staring at the man in the eyes. There’s a flicker of approval in the blue irises and Jon unconsciously nods, as if they were making a deal. They could shake hands, if Jon wasn't restrained. Jon gets the impression this is the best way to deal with this guy. The man’s a merchant and Jon thinks he doesn’t so much want to torture him as he wants him ready to sell. He wants Jon to learn, and quickly, if that’s how he can keep people from getting hurt, so be it. Jon stops himself from thinking at what it is he’s going to have to learn.

“Good,” concludes Sosruqo, still crouching in front of him, and then stands back up with an unnerving pat to Jon’s head, before moving to his right side, his back to him and Aleqi, as he approaches the shelf. Jon corks his neck as much as the pillory allows and watches as the man’s left hand hovers over the line of tools, not quite touching any.

After a few moments he picks a wooden object. It’s shape is phallic, though it is neither the largest nor the longest of the shelf. Two leather strings are attached to its flat base, one side sporting a buckle.

Jon’s breath turns heavier as his heartbeat quickens, the sound of it drumming in his ears. He’s shaking in nervousness.

Sosruqo quietly comes back towards him and crouches once again, setting the device on the floor next to him. He gently but firmly takes Jon’s face in his warm hands, demanding his attention. Jon manages to look at him, swallowing his own unease. He tries to quell the feeling by focusing on the man’s features. He’s never really looked at his face. His unlined and shiny forehead is crowned by a widow’s peak, highlighted by the vivacious colour of his dye hair. His light blue eyes are a bit sunken under thick blond eyebrows, and have really short eyelashes. His lips are thin and pale under the long beard, and they look a bit dry. His square jaw gives him a strong manly look, and, annoyingly enough, it reminds Jon slightly of Ned.

He shakes himself, looking back into the man’s eyes, and notices a twinkle there.

“Open your mouth,” bids the man. He studies Jon, trying to catch any sign of resistance.

Jon looks for a moment towards Aleqi who kneels just three feet behind Sosruqo, her eyes lowered to the floor.

His eyes are drawn back to the Tyroshi when the man’s thumb presses against his lower lip. He squints at Jon, who takes just one last moment before acquiescing. His lips open tremulously. Sosrusqo’s lips form a tiny smile of approval as he leans to pick up the object from the floor. It’s not as thick that it wouldn't fit, but it’s long enough to cause discomfort, notices Jon eyeing the thing.

“See that hesitation, Aleqi?” he says distractedly while carefully bringing the wooden device to Jon’s open mouth. “That has to go as soon as possible. I can't have him in training for long.”

“Yes, Master Sosruqo,” comes the tiny voice of the older woman.

The tip of the phallus is pushed through his lips, past his teeth and carefully laid on Jon’s tongue. It pushes a little deeper, touching the back of Jon’s throat. The rigid object feels heavy in his mouth, especially since his head is hanging from the uncomfortable framework. It feels too big in his mouth and Jon thinks he’s going to hate this more than anything. Sucking a stranger’s cock - and he has no doubt now he’s going to have to - he’s going to hate that more than anything. He wonders if when Ygritte took Jon in her mouth, did she feel so small and degraded as well.

_No, she never felt small. I am though, I have become it._

_I’m nothing._

His body can’t help trying to reject the object and he tries to spit it out, but Sosruqo is already stopping that, and he ties the leather strings on the back of his head. His right hand comes on Jon's cheek.

"This is called a penis gag," explains Sosruqo, though Jon is too focused on trying to breathe to care. "It's not a punishment. Consider it a lesson. You'll need to learn how to suck a man's cock really fast, so this is the best way to get you used to the feeling of have your mouth full. You'll wear this for the next three days. Aleqi will take it off when she's to feed you and let you drink."

Jon's gut twists at the thought of having this thing in his throat for three full days. His breath becomes suddenly more labored.

"No need to panic now," Sosruqo consoles him in a condescending tone, and his index taps twice at the left side of Jon's nose. "Breathe through your nose. Swallow around it. As long as you don't upset yourself you'll have no trouble. It's just a bit uncomfortable."

Jon makes a sound of distress around the gag and strains his neck back, wanting to say that no, it's not just a bit uncomfortable, and he can't have this thing in his mouth for three days, but the movement causes its tip to graze the back of his throat, bringing angry tears to his eyes as he gags.

The man smiles at him and pats his cheek, slowly pushing to a stand. “You’ll learn that if you comply and do your duty, a good bed slave gets to have lots of privileges. A beautiful room all for yourself, fine clothes, jewelry, fine food, and gifts. So many gifts. If you prove to be trustworthy you might even be allowed outside at times,” says the man stepping back so that Jon can crane his head enough to look at his face. His tone is enigmatic, as though he were showing Jon a whole secret and wondrous world. “You’ll visit cities and castles and drink the most exotic wines, listen to beautiful music. If you’re really good, you might even inspire artists, you might become a muse.”

Jon can do nothing but focus on breathing, but inside he’s burning at the man’s attempt to buy him. Does he think him so shallow that he would care about fineries and food and music? That he would value those things more than his own body, more than his own dignity?

And yet, what point is there, to think about dignity, when he’s naked and bent over, a phallus in his throat? He’s already accepted this, so what is he even fighting for? His own soul, the soul of a traitor, a kinslayer, someone who brought a city to disaster? It must be the human mind, he muses, no matter how one’s reason has accepted a situation, it’s instinctual to try to protect what’s left of one’s sanity. Maybe he shouldn’t wish to be sane, he thinks, trying to clear his own head and focusing on the man.

Sosruqo walks around the kneeling figure of Aleqi and lights up a few other candles, all the while talking to Jon. “If you show talent,” he continues, shaking the match out and then returning to Jon. “I can teach you how to be a courtesan, how to walk into a room and make men and women fall in love with you, how to make them desire you so much that they would give away their first daughter just to have you. I can teach you to use your body and your voice to make those man and women do and say and give you what you want.”

He crouches in front of Jon once more and smiles at him cunningly.

“All except one thing,” he whispers. “Freedom.”

Jon blinks at him, listening, painfully aware of the picture he must make, with his head and hands hanging from three holes, his lips stretched open.

“You can never be free, boy,” says the man and detects no fakeness in the man’s voice this time. He’s simply telling him how this works. How normal it must feel to him, to buy breathing people, to own them, and force them to be raped. How many slaves has he owned? How many are there in this house? How many floors are there? How many boys Mazin’s age does the man own?

_He owns me too now. Like cattle. Like an object._

“I might decide to sell you and you might have another master, but you can never be free again,” continues Sosruqo as Jon tries to come to grips with this new reality. “You can, although, if you’re good enough, get as much power a slave can have. And some, not many, but some slaves get to have more power than some free men, if they have the right master, meet the right people. You might find out you enjoy it, you know”, his tone turns conspiratorial again and his eyebrows raise meaningfully at Jon. “It doesn’t have to be terrible, if you learn to embrace it. You might like the feeling of giving someone pleasure, the power in it, or maybe… maybe the lust. A soldier like you must enjoy having his blood run hot.”

Jon feels his member surge a bit, slightly interested. He flinches angrily at the involuntary reaction and the man doesn’t fail to notice.

“You’re hardening, aren’t you?” he asks, but there’s no real questioning tone in his voice.

Jon simply stares at him, bleakly.

“Aleqi,” calls Sosruqo and she raises her head instantly. “Go and tease his cock a bit. Just the head, with your tongue. Don’t make him come. He’ll need to earn that.”

“Yes, Master Sosruqo,” she acquiesces, standing quickly and walking behind Jon, where he cannot see her. He hears her falling to her knees again, shuffling under him.

“Hear that?” asks Sosruqo, directed at him this time, distracting Jon from Aleqi. “The way she addresses me? That’s how you ought to talk to me. Always address me as Master. Always. I guess we won’t have to worry about that for the next three days though, will we?” he asks with a serious face and then makes an annoyed frown. “You should have taught him this first thing, Aleqi. I don’t enjoy doing your job for you,” he berates her, with an annoyed voice.

“Yes, Master Sosruqo. I apologize, Master,” she answers in a repenting tone, and then, Jon feels her tongue on the head of his member, giving small licks at the sensitive skin. His toes curl and he raises his head, closing his eyes at the tantalizing sensation, a feeling of disgust at himself spreading in his veins. This woman is forced to do this to him, and he’s enjoying it. What in the Seven Hells is wrong with him?

He opens his eyes again trying to maintain some semblance of composure, but only finds knowing eyes and a smug face across from him.

The man tilts his head at Jon. He can either see through him or he’s done this with too many unwilling participants because he states: “It’s alright for you to like it. She wouldn’t be doing her job well if you didn’t,” he pauses for a moment as his eyes move to Aleqi. He seems to clinically study her movements for a brief moment, before returning his focus to Jon.

“You will do the same to other men and they will enjoy just as much as you do, if not more,” he tells Jon. He suddenly diverts his eyes to the side again. “Suck his balls a little,” he directs, clearly speaking to the Myrwoman. “Let’s see if he likes that.”

 _I don't. I hate this_ , thinks Jon, desperately trying to stop any reaction his body might have.

Aleqi’s tongue gives one final lap at his member and then retracts. He misses it for the briefest moment.

“Yes, Master Sosruqo,” she says and she sounds more at ease now. Jon wonders if she feels more in her element now, rather than when she’s teaching him.

“She addresses me also with my name because she’s had so many masters,” explains Sosruqo, this time speaking to Jon. “Also, being too old to be a concubine, she’s to keep more distance, be more formal. You won’t need to do that with me, you’re too pretty and too young for that” he says, tracing Jon’s lips with a finger, causing Jon to momentarily forget about Aleqi. He looks at the man with huge and dark eyes. “With your clients, you must always add their name, however,” Sosruqo adds, clearly in afterthought. “Usually their last name, if they mention it. Be formal before you do anything intimate, and then see and judge if they might prefer you to be less formal. They generally do, but it depends on the person. You’ll catch on eventually.”

Aleqi’s lips gently encircle his testicles and Jon’s attention is drawn back to her. He makes a muffled sound of surprise, his teeth biting on the wooden gag. Fingers grasp his jaw, as Aleqi suckles at his sack. “Relax. Never bite when you have something in your mouth, no matter what,” growls Sosruqo menacingly, squeezing Jon’s jaw, pulling it down. Jon forces himself to relax his muscles, all the while Aleqi keeps sucking at his balls, sending shocks of pleasure to Jon’s cock. He’s not at his full girth, but he’s close.

“Graze him with your teeth,” orders Sosruqo, causing Jon to narrow his eyes at him in worry. “Lightly”

He feels her teeth graze at his tender balls and, though he tenses, it sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. Out of his control, his penis surges further, undeniably interested. Sosruqo bends his head to peek at what’s happening behind the pillory, his hand still gripping Jon’s jaw, making sure he doesn’t bite on the gag.

“A bit harder now,” he bids at Aleqi. “Let’s see if he likes that.”

 _Who? Who would like teeth down there?_ wonders Jon incredulously.

Indeed this time it definitely hurts, sending a shock to Jon’s guts, and he makes a distressed sound, trying to get away from both the man’s grip on his face and Aleqi’s mouth, but his feet are locked in place, as well as his neck, and there’s no escaping. This time his cock does not get bigger, but neither does it wilt, to Jon’s shame.

“Mhm, we can work with that, I think,” murmurs Sosruqo, speaking to himself, his eyes pointed to somewhere Jon can’t see, but he’d guess the man is looking at his member, studying his reaction, and he blushes, wishing for this to be over. But it’s not nearly over, he knows. This is just the beginning. He’s going to be prodded at and looked at and put to use and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Not without getting people hurt. Aleqi, Mazin. He can’t get anymore people hurt, no more, he tells himself, and tries to wish his own blush away and just to focus on following orders. That’s okay, he can do that.

Sosruqo leans back to look at Jon’s face again, cracks at smile, apparently finding something in Jon’s face to be amusing. Or maybe pathetic, sort of like a puppy, muses Jon bitterly and tiredly. He presses a finger to the corner of Jon’s gagged mouth, wetting the tip in the drool that has been pooling there. He smears the drool all over his chin and cheeks and, once he looks satisfied at the mess he’s made of Jon, he releases his jaw. "So pretty," he says to himself.

 _Fuck you_.

"Oh don't look at me like that," says the man with a sigh. "You brought this on yourself. I can be very good to you if you behave."

Jon looks at him darkly, unwilling to give himself away. "Well you do look pretty when you're angry," snickers the man, before turning serious. “I’ll get behind you now," he explains. "I don’t want you biting on your gag, understand? If I find signs of teeth on the wood, that stays on three days more, understand? Nod if you do.”

He’s scanning Jon’s eyes with his own intense stare. Jon nods grimly once and the man, seemingly satisfied with his response, finally stands up and disappears behind the framework holding Jon bent forward.

“Aleqi, go back to his cock, tease it and don’t let him come,” orders Sosruqo from behind him, and as soon as Jon’s testicules are released, Aleqi’s tongue licks at the head of his member, slowly tormenting him.

Hands grasp his hips, steadying him as he tries to squirm away. “Stay,” he hears, a menace in the tone. He stills, blinking furiously and trying to focus on breathing through his nose, but snot has formed and it’s a struggle. Don’t fight it, someone is saying, a woman, but Jon can’t recognize the voice. It could be Dany, but it’s not threatening. It could be Ygritte, but it’s not mockin-

A wet finger touches his entrance, and Jon can’t help but tighten his muscles, shutting it out. “Relax,” Sosruqo says. “This is going in no matter what, don’t make it harder on yourself, boy.” Aleqi’s small hand taps at his knee, in a silent plea, while her lips suckle at him, making him shudder. He breathes and relaxes his muscles, as he has no alternatives. The finger breaches past his entrance and it’s wet and it burns slightly, but it’s not painful. It goes deeper, twirling for a second, and then retracts, but not fully. Aleqi laps at his cock sending a jolt through him, and he pushes into her, the finger following him, burrowing deeper into him, and the burning turning into a mixed pain he’s never felt before. He looks at the candles in front of him, his breaths coming out faster, as Aleqi takes to slowly licking the underside of his member, and the finger twists uncomfortably inside his walls. He feels the sudden need to push against it, but that would mean pulling away from Aleqi’s ministrations.

Suddenly the finger slides out of him. He barely has a chance to adjust to the feeling, when suddenly it’s two fingers pushing into him, and he pulls away, leaning towards the Myrwoman. The fingers don’t leave him alone, and push deeper causing him to shut his eyes at the burning sensation, the light of the candle imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. His body trembles as Aleqi leans back and pushes her tongue against his slit, making him shiver at the torment. The fingers pump up his opening, sliding in and out, each time delving deeper, giving him barely enough time to adjust. His cock feels painfully hot, he can feel himself getting harder, and yet so far from completion. He wants to get away, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to enjoy this, to be turned into what they want to make him. And yet, there’s no way to run, and his body’s betrayal feels worse than getting stabbed in his chest felt.

The fingers open inside him, trying to make space, separating his walls. They leave and come back three, causing his anus to pulsate painfully around them. He can’t contain a muffled sound, but he doesn’t bite on the wooden thing, no matter what. His cock wilts slightly, but Aleqi sucks him a bit more insistently now, and he’s torn between pain and pleasure, stuck in the middle.

“Relax,” repeats Sosruqo in a soothing voice. Jon hates his own body for obeying the calming tone.

“You’re doing so well. We’ll get another one in you and you’re done for the day.”

The three finger work themselves into him, crooking and twisting, and it sends an ache through a place deep into Jon’s stomach, and then they leave for a moment, before four fingers push at his now stretched opening. It hurts, Jon squirms away, but Sosruqo’s left hand holds his hip and guides him back against him. “Push against them,” he orders and Jon reminds himself he’s already accepted his fate and what is at stake. He tentatively rocks his hips back at Sosruqo, working himself onto the fingers, trying to forget the pain, and to focus on Aleqi’s tongue, which follows him promptly, lapping at his cock, never neglecting it.

Sweat drops slide over his brow as Sosruqo’s fingers bury deep inside him, and Jon’s breath is shallow and he’s exhausted, but he doesn’t let up. He keeps rocking against his invader, not allowing himself to fight it.

_I’m doing it for Aleqi. I just need to not resist. Do not resist._

Aleqi suck at his member’s head and he sobs around the gag, aching for release.  
The fingers suddenly pull out, leaving his hole gaping and Jon struggling to get air through his nose. “Stop, Aleqi,” bids Sosruqo.

She releases his cock with a ‘pop’ and Jon’s hard member bounces freely, leaving him slightly disoriented.

Someone walks over to him. It’s Sosruqo.

“You did well,” he tells him, patting his head, and Jon could swear he sees a flicker of regret, but in a moment it’s gone, and he walks away.

“Get him some water and clean the snot, Aleqi. I’ll be back in the morning,” he says, his voice sounding tired to Jon’s ears. Then he walks out, leaving them alone.

*

The next few days he spends in the same position. Aleqi’s there. She lets the gag out and feeds him quietly, with sad eyes. He doesn’t speak much either. She cleans his face and dries the sweat. She pushes a bucket under him, so he can relieve himself. Sosruqo comes often, checks on him, tells him what’s going to happen. He probes Jon’s ass, first with his fingers, than with a stone phallus that spreads him open and makes him sweat and writhe at the pain, and tells him he’ll leave it inside so Jon can get used to being filled. It all passes in a blur to Jon. He doesn’t always listen. He thinks of home, and snow, and imagines Aleqi’s hands are Sansa’s. He imagines Arya is there asking him to spar with her. He tries to get away with his mind, when he can. He dozes off at times and his dreams are disturbed by fire and by blood, children screaming and soldiers raping women. He sees Daenerys and she looks at him, pinning him with her angry eyes, clearly blaming him for everything. He dreams that she’s with child, and she takes his hand and pushes it against her swollen womb, but when he pulls it back, blood his running down his wrist and she vanishes into ashes in front of him, a babe’s wet squealing ringing hauntingly in his ears.

And then there’s Drogon, roaring at him, fire forming in his open throat. A raven caws and Jon turns around, looking for the bird, but he can’t see it, the sun has disappeared. Drogon growls menacingly over him, staring at the dark. Jon looks down and a long-haired woman kneels at his feet, weeping. Jon touches her hair but she won’t let him see her face.

Twice he ends up inside Ghost. He runs, snow feeling cool under his paws, and Tormund is near him, riding a horse. He races with him, feeling free, not knowing where they’re headed and it’s always painful when he has to leave.

Aleqi tells him how a good slave acts. How he must look at Master Sosruqo, how he must kneel for Master Sosruqo, how he must please Master Sosruqo. She tells him of all the punishment that can follow if he disobeys, but she doesn’t know he fears more for her than for himself. She probably hasn’t met anyone who wants to keep her from harm for a very long time, doesn’t even know how to recognize that in people. He looks at her as she speaks, trying to keep his head up.

On the third night, Sosruqo comes and orders Aleqi to keep Jon aroused, and when she kneels under him like she did on the first day, the stone plug is slid out of him and Sosruqo’s cock takes its place. It tears Jon open, but he’s so tired he barely struggles. Tears well in his eyes and snot clogs up his nose, and he struggles to breathe as Sosruqo takes him brutally. Maybe he’s not even being brutal about it, but Jon has never felt a pain like that before and he wonders if that’s what women feel when they lay with a man. Sosruqo’s balls slap against Jon’s and send small shocks through his spine, which added to Aleqi’s skilled licking and teasing make Jon wish for a release that he’s not allowed.

It seems to last forever until it doesn’t. Sosruqo finishes inside Jon and puts the plug back in, saying it will have to stay in for the night. When he’s finally left alone, Jon is sore and dirty and angry at himself, because even when he’s lost everything, even with all he’s done, and with all his failings, even knowing he probably deserves this, his debasement makes him wish for his father.

He dozes off and dreams of Winterfell, of the Godswood and his father sharpening Ice sitting at the roots of the Heart Tree. He walks to him, calling him. “Father,” he says, his voice sounding rough even to himself. Ned raises his head and looks at Jon. “I should like to see your head roll,” he says in his gruff voice. Then his head falls from his neck rolling into the pond. Jon dives in searching for it, but the water is thick with blood and he can’t find his father’s head. When he dips his hands in the water they come up with rubies. “From his king's blood and his untainted fire, a dragon shall be born.” He looks around and Melisandre stands naked in the sea of blood. He swims to her, rubies forgotten. She puts her cold hands on his burning cheeks.

“Wake up.”

He opens his eyes and Aleqi’s green eyes stare into his own. Her hands on his cheeks feel so soothing.

“He has a fever, Master,” she says, holding his head up. Jon closes his eyes, leaning into her hands.

“Very well. Torrjan, free him and take him to his new room. Aleqi, send for a bath there.”

She releases him and Jon falls into the darkness.

*

When he comes to again he’s on a comfortable bed, fine silk sheets draped over his sore body. He breathes in deeply. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and find the guard there, or Sosruqo, or Aleqi’s empty eyes. It feels so good to be alone for a moment. He licks his dehydrated lips. A goblet is brought to his lips and he drinks greedily, feeling several drops sliver down his neck. He yawns and gathers enough will to force his eyelids open.

He looks to the side and waits for his vision to unblur. Mazin sits at his bedside, smiling down at him.

Am I dreaming? he thinks, staring pointedly at the boy.

“You were sick, so I asked Master if I could help. He said yes.”

“How long?” Jon asks, his voice rougher than usual.

“Since you came up with a fever? Four days,” answers Mazin, setting the goblet on a nightstand and leaning back on his chair. It’s made of dark wood, covered in fine gold fabric upholstery, and looks really comfortable. Jon’s drowsy eyes take in the room, so different from where they kept him before he got sick. It has a wide mahogany wardrobe that take up almost an entire wall. There are two nightstands at each side of the king-sized canopy bed. The sheets are gold and white and white silk curtains hang from the canopy.

A round mahogany table sits on the other side of the large room, two chairs around it. In front of the wide fireplace there is a long chair covered in the same gold fabric upholstery, and has only one padded arm, so that one can fully lay on it, resting on one’s side.

His eyes stop at the door. Is it locked? He moves his legs around a bit. His muscles are so sore and his back is killing him. He feels like after battle. Could he break the door, take out the guard - guards, he remembers - manage to take Mazin and make a run for it?

“It’s nice, this room, isn’t it?” asks Mazin, interrupting his calculating thoughts.

 _Yes, so nice it makes me sick_ , he thinks bitterly but he doesn’t answer the boy.

“Much nicer than mine,” adds Mazin, with a grin. Jon raises his eyebrow at him, in a silent question.

“I share a room with Kleo, the other boy from our first day. It’s on the second floor and it has two beds, but small. There are some games, though, so it’s not bad.”

“Are you hurt?” asks Jon, looking him over.

“No, I’m fine. Master has been nice to me. He says if I need something I can ask,” he tells Jon, shrugging his shoulders.

“But did he make you do anything?” asks Jon worriedly.  
“No, not yet. He says he has to teach me things, but it takes time. Mostly I spend time with Kleo. We play. He doesn’t speak much, though.”

Jon’s stomach settles in relief, but he doesn’t know for how long that will be.

“Good. I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I am, mostly. It’s just…” he starts, then seems to change his mind. Jon raises an eyebrow again.

“What?”

“I’m a bit hungry. I’ve told Master but he said children can’t always eat. That it makes us lazy,” he says with another shrug, his honey-coloured eyes looking a bit glassy.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” asks Jon, suddenly worried. It makes no sense, considering he himself was fed three times a day before getting sick.

“Yesterday morning. Some milk,” replies the boy grimly.

Jon furrows his brows, and looks around the room, but there’s no food. “I’ll bring you something,” he tells him with a hopefully convincing voice, as he tries to mentally come up with a way to get food without letting Sosruqo know.

“I don’t know. Also the other boys. They aren’t fed often. I don’t think Master will allow it,” Mazin tells him, causing Jon to look at him, perplexed.

“How many are there?”

“There’s four of us. Kleo’s the youngest. Then there’s me, then Dratih, and Agat. They share a room. They all say we don’t eat often.”

“Do they know why?” asks Jon, sensing there’s something he’s missing. If he’s planning to sell the boys why wouldn’t he feed them? They’re going to need the energy, he thinks bitterly.

“They wouldn’t tell me, but it’s clear they know,” offers Mazin, with one corner of his mouth turned upwards.

Jon nods, but says no more. He doesn’t want to scare the boy further.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find a way,” he says simply and Mazin smiles at him, looking at him with admiration. But Jon’s inside twist in guilt. There’s not much he can do for the boy. And when Mazin finds out what’s to become of him, he’ll see no one can really protect him, not even Jon.

“I’m so glad you woke up,” Mazin says, a newfound cheerfulness in his innocent voice and Jon smiles at him, trying to forget the world around them for the moment.


	7. Don't just sit with folded hands and become blind

“Your Grace? I hope I’m not disturbing you.” Tyrion says after Ser Brienne opens the door to the King’s Chambers for him. All the windows are open and Tyrion shivers as he enters the chilly chambers.

King Bran sits in front of the fireplace, staring unblinkingly at the flames. After a very long moment, in which Tyrion fears he has misstepped in entering the Chambers so late in the evening, the Broken King turns his head and pins the Lord Hand down with his lifeless stare.

“You are not. I was expecting you,” answers King Bran and Tyrion nods slowly, still unused to being constantly reminded of His Grace’s greenseeing powers. Daenerys was intelligent and intuitive, and she used to be able to see through him, but he’d managed to surprise her at times. He’d managed to preceed her on several occasions, directing her towards this course of action or this other, catching her unprepared. He’s not going to be able to do as much with the Stark king. He will only ever advise from now on - he’ll be utterly unable to pull the strings without his knowing. Maybe it’s for the best. 

Maybe this time he’ll do it right. Maybe this time the bells will not go unheard. Maybe he will not think he can control his king, only to see him turn into an unstoppable monster. He’s already lost his family this his last Queen, so that can’t happen twice, at least, he thinks, sighing to himself, before smiling kindly to the cripple King.

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ve come with a message from Queen Sansa,” he states, stepping forwards to pass the scroll to the King.

“Read it out loud, my lord,” bids King Bran, stopping him midstep. He’s in the middle of the wide room.

“Of course, Your Grace,” he acquiesces, before clearing his voice.

“Dear Brother,” he reads at a calm pace. He can hear Sansa’s cool and graceful voice echo in his head. “I hope this finds you well. I’m writing to you with concerning news, although I do not doubt you already know the information I am about to disclose.” Tyrion pauses for a moment to look at Bran, searching for a hint that he might know what Sansa’s letter is going reveal. The King has gone back to staring at the flames. He’s perfectly still.

He reads on.

“I’ve received a message from Tormund Giantsbane, who is at the Wall. Jon never arrived at Castle Black. He should have been there over a fortnight ago, but his retinue is nowhere to be found. Tormund and several men of the Night’s Watch are now scouting the area looking for him, but so far they have had no luck.”

_What?_

“Your Grace…?” Tyrion asks, looking at the Stark boy askance.

“Continue,” King Bran orders in his stoic voice. Tyrion blinks once, his brain trying to process the news, but otherwise does as he’s told.

“I fear something might have happened to him. Jon would never run away, nor would he hide from his sentence. He is too much like Father. You told me I would see him again once. Please tell me he is alive. Have you seen what has happened to him? Do you know where he is? Is he safe?” 

Tyrion can almost picture Sansa’s trembling hand writing the scared words. He swallows the knot that has formed in his throat.

“If harm has come to Jon, then it is to be considered as a slight not only to House Stark, but to both the Six Kingdoms and the North. It must not be taken lightly. We must find him and make sure he’s well, Bran. Yours, Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.”

Tyrion lets the words sink in for an agonizing moment.

“Your Grace… Did you know about this?” asks Tyrion, letting the hand holding the piece of paper fall limply at his side.

“If you ask if I knew Jon Snow never made it to the Wall, then the answer to your query is yes, My Lord,” answers the boy King, still focused on the flames. 

Does he see something there? Does he see Jon Snow?

“Where is he, then, Your Grace?”

“I cannot see him, My Lord,” replies the King, finally turning to Tyrion. The Lord Hand can see no worry in his dark eyes, no emotion.

“What does that mean, Your Grace? I thought you could see anyone you wanted.”

Does this mean Jon Snow is dead?

“I thought so myself, Lord Hand,” admits the King placidly. Tyrion finds his calmness more than a bit irritating.  
  


“Do you fear this could mean your cousin is dead, Your Grace?” 

King Bran slowly shakes his head.

Please elaborate, Your Grace, thinks Tyrion tiredly.

“Stark blood is strong in Jon Snow. If he were dead, I would feel it, and so would Sansa. We have been plagued by dreams about each other since the day we found the direwolves,” explains His Grace. He pauses for a moment and blinks for the first time in the entire conversation. “No, I don’t believe he’s dead,” he concludes.

“Then how come you can’t see him, Your Grace? Has that ever happened before?” interrogates the youngest Lannister, as he tries figuring out what might have happened to the former King in the North. Tyrion remembers standing on the battlements and watching with a heavy conscience as his ship set sail. Jon said goodbye to his cousins and walked to boat, his long cloak flapping at his feet.

“Have my powers failed me after fully growing into them? No, this is the first time, My Lord.”

“Do you have any idea as to what could cause that, Your Grace?”

“Isn’t it your job to advise me and not the other way around, Lord Hand?”

Tyrion realizes he’s been interrogating the King and immediately apologizes, bowing deeply. To his defense, His Grace seems to be uninterested in his own cousin’s -former brother’s- predicament. Of course, everybody knows Bran Stark is no more the boy he used to be, but there must be some part of him that lingers. Shouldn’t that part of him still care for what happens to his own blood, to Jon, who was once his older brother, who has saved a whole country and paid for it?

“I apologize, Your Grace. I feel unsettled by the news. I care dearly for your cousin, and I would not wish him death or injury. I simply cannot understand why your greensight would stop working now,” Tyrion states, hoping to bring out the boy inside the raven.

Bran Stark studies him at length before looking out the windows, where the night sky is dark and seems to prepare for a storm.

“It might be that my powers have weakened after the Long Night,” utters the young King at last. “Ice and Fire are both gone and the elements have settled. Magic calls for magic. With the threat of the White Walkers gone, my powers are not as necessary. Magic could grow extinct.”

Thunder rocks the earth between their feet.

“That is-” begins the Lord Hand after a long moment. He bites his lower lip and looks outside, pondering what the King has just said. 

“I suppose that might make sense, Your Grace,” he concedes at last. “Can you see your sisters, Your Grace? I assume you can see the Wall. Is it only Jon Snow you cannot see?” 

_And why didn’t you share with me sooner that Jon Snow has disappeared?_

Tyrion bites his tongue.

The King looks at him again, and seems to read his thoughts. If he does, he ignores them.

“I can see both my sisters, and the Wall, My Lord. How would I know if it’s only Jon Snow I cannot see? I can only know what I know to look for.” His Grace tells him, ever the unreadable expression on his young face. He does raise an eyebrow at the Lord Hand.

“That’s quite the good point, Your Grace,” agrees Tyrion, even though he can’t help feeling he’s being patronized by this boy who could still be suckling at the wet nurse’s breast. 

The King’s empty eyes turn back to the flames and Tyrion feels he’s about to be sent out.

“Your Grace,” he starts again, an unwelcome queasiness nagging at him, “do you not find it odd that Jon Snow disappears after he’s sentenced and you suddenly stop seeing him? When you can still see everybody else in your family?”

He can’t not ask. Is the King protecting his cousin from spending the rest of his days at the Wall? Did he plan on this? Could he be lying to everybody for Jon’s sake?

Bran seems to know what he’s getting at. He sighs, finally looking annoyed. 

“Yes, I do find it odd, Lord Hand. When Jon Snow left King’s Landing I could see his path. The past is written, the ink is dry, my Lord. The future can change. I do not know where Jon is. I will try and look for him, but whatever path he is in now, there is no way to control how we alter it. It alters itself.”

“Maybe, Your Grace. But if we can locate him and he’s hurt, we could help him. There is no way to know if that will turn the odds in his favour, but that should not stop us from trying. Maybe trying is the right path,” Tyrion tries to reason with him.

Bran does not answer.

“In any case, your sister seems set on finding out what has happened to him, and I can’t blame her for it. She’s her mother’s daughter, and your Lady mother never gave up on her family until she had to,” Tyrion says, taking a step closer to His Grace’s chair, wanting to hand him Queen Sansa’s message. Bran does not turn.

“What will you write to your sister, My King? She sounds upset,” he continues, looking at the boy’s profile. It’s still as a statue.

“You shall write back to her, and report what we have discussed,” the King bids after another thunder interrupts them. “Tell her he’s not dead. Gather the council and figure out how to best proceed. We will talk again once you’ve discussed the issue with Ser Davos and Samwell Tarly.”

Maybe they do need a Master of Whispers if the King cannot fully use his powers anymore. Maybe he shouldn’t have chosen a King who cannot show emotion even for his own blood. Maybe he’s just toying with all of them.

There are so many questions he wishes he could ask of him, but he senses he’s being dismissed.

They’re not going to find Jon Snow in one night anyways. He thinks of his sad smile and kind eyes. He thinks of his broken voice as he asks Tyrion whether he did what was right. He hopes wherever he is, he’s well, the man who was born to be king and then was tossed as an unwanted whore.

 _Where are you, bastard?_ he asks himself once he’s back in his own chambers, comfortably sprawled on his giant bed, with the sounds of the raging storm and the waves breaking against the city walls, or what’s left of them, in his ears.

The message for Sansa waits on his table for the storm to pass.

  
  


*

  
  


For the next few days Jon sees no one but Aleqi. The door to his room only unlocks when she comes in to see him. 

She comes in the morning with a tray of food and feeds it to him as he lays in bed, his lower half covered only by the beautiful sheets. He’s not allowed to touch the food himself, Sosruqo’s orders. Jon looks at her bruised cheek and tries to not make things harder for the Myrwoman. She seems to really hate teaching him. Neither of them, for a reason or the other, seem to have a choice in it. 

On the third day, Aleqi comes to wake him up and has him stand up. He knows she’s seen him naked before and in definitely more compromising situations, but he still blushes as he stands before her. She doesn’t look like she even notices he’s naked. Unlike him, she wears a two-pieced yellow dress. The top part has short sleeves and fits tightly around her breasts, but leaves her navel naked. The skirt is long and follows the curve of her legs, nothing like the wide gowns ladies wear in Westeros. But then again, she’s not a lady, and they’re across the Narrow Sea. 

He realizes he’s staring and drops his gaze, as she turns around and leads him to the round table, only to introduce him to an extremely short and weird looking stool. The top is curved upwards, making it look like a saddle, and a wooden penis protrudes from the surface. Jon stops midstep. He’s not getting on that.

Aleqi sits at the table and looks at him. She points a finger to the stool.

They let her in his room with no guards, because they know they can trust him with her. It has taken Sosruqo less than a couple days to understand Jon and his need to protect innocent people. There’s a reason if he joined the Night’s Watch when he was barely a man grown. Yes, he’d needed a place to be, somewhere to belong. A purpose.

No matter how hard life as a recruit had been, Jon revelled in knowing he was protecting people. He was in his element. 

And even now, he can’t change that part of himself. He can’t even hide it. Maybe this is the way to redemption for all the people he couldn’t save. Maybe this is his path. 

No matter what, that stool looks terrible enough to cause Jon’s resolution for self-sacrifice to falter. 

“You can’t mean…” he begins, not able to take his eyes off the stool. 

Aleqi’s only answer is to hand him a small bottle of oil. Jon takes it absently, still staring at the obscenity that awaits him. He doesn’t move.

“You must prepare yourself. Or else you get hurt,” Aleqi calls out to him, shaking him off. He turns to her, feeling lost. 

“Your fingers,” she adds, because he must look confused. Yes, he knows what she expects him to do, but he wouldn’t have thought he’d be asked to do it in front of her. Or anyone, ever really.

He breathes in deeply and strokes his beard, looking at the small glass bottle. 

“Go on, we don’t have whole day,” bids the woman, pushing her white braid to rest on one shoulder. Jon has to remind himself why he’s doing this. 

As he comes to a painful decision, he uncorks the bottle and dips some oil onto his fingers, under her watchful eyes.

“Kneel. Lean on your arm,” she directs him when she sees him stalling. 

_There’s no escape. No other choice._

Shutting out his anger at his own predicament, he goes to his knees. “Fall with grace,” she tells him as he leans forward, trying to find a comfortable position. “You must fall like a weighless thing, like feather. Slowly.”

He decides to ignore that, as he focuses on the task at hand. Trying to forget she’s there watching him, he probes his own entrance with his index, not really pushing.

“Don’t be afraid. Know your body. It’s strong,” she tells him, sounding like she’s trying to encourage him. Jon doesn’t feel strong at all. He thinks on the contrary he might find out how easily broken he can be.

Still, it’s good advice. Better to find out for himself how far he can go.

Shutting his eyes, he dips his finger inside, pushing against the circle of nerves until more than half his index is in. It burns slightly, but it’s not all that uncomfortable. 

  
“Make small circles, then out. Then in again,” orders Aleqi’s voice, and Jon hates that it helps, someone telling him how to do this. It keeps him from overthinking it.

Jon is good at learning, for in truth he’s a doer. That’s why he always shone when learning to spar, or shoot an arrow. He was always good at following orders. He hates to admit it calms him down.

“Push in again, two fingers. You must put three. In and out until it hurts no more.”

Jon does just that. His fingers are tentative at first, but then he loses himself in Aleqi’s calm, cool voice and starts pushing harder. He realizes if he goes at his own pace it doesn’t hurt. His member starts hardening at the sensation, but Aleqi doesn’t comment on it, she just lets him spread himself.

  
Once small beads of sweat have formed on his forehead, Aleqi stops him and points again at the small stool. 

“Put your feet on either side. Good. Now kneel.”

Jon takes a deep breath, as if to go underwater, but he tells himself to obey. No point in delaying this, there’s nothing he can do about it.

As he straddles the saddle-like stool, the penis-shaped object touches his back and Jon stops lowering himself. He looks down, daring a peek at the width of the thing. His eyes widen. He can’t do this.

“Go on. You’re slick,” says Aleqi and Jon is so timorous that he doesn’t even blush at her words. He swallows and looks at her, silently asking for something he can’t name. She sighs and rolls her eyes, as if he were making much fuss for nothing, and then nods. She holds out a hand and Jon stares at it. He’s at a loss.

“Take it, lean on it. Then try and sit,” she directs him. 

Feeling ashamed at himself for needing her help, he takes her hand and very carefully aligns himself with the tip of the --- he doesn’t even know how to call it.

Breathing deeply he leans his weight on Aleqi’s steadying grip and lets himself lower. It hurts instantly this time. This is not like fingers. This is solid and unbending wood and as oiled as his entrance is, there’s no making this easy.

He bites down a whimper and tries opening himself, but it’s too painful, and it seems impossible that he can go lower than this or that the thing can go deeper than this. He tries to rock his hip against it, as he did with the fingers, but it only makes him shut his eyes in agony. 

Suddenly, when the pain is about to get too much and he’s thinking to go back up, Aleqi’s finger presses against the bridge of his nose.

  
“Relax. You’re tensing too much. See here, all wrinkles,” she says, massaging the skin up to his forehead. “No fear, you don’t break. Breathe,” she tells him and Jon realizes he’s been holding his breath. He lets the air out through his nose. The thing is halfway inside, he thinks, feeling sweat running down his temple. 

“Now, squeeze my hand and push. Push like you do for shit,” she directs him, causing him to look at her in pained bewilderment. “Yes, like that. Trust.”

He can’t go back up, now, he can’t do this again. There’s no other way to go than south. He takes a deep breath and does as she says. He pushes as he lowers himself more, while squeezing both her hands now. She does not let him go.

For what seems like an infinite moment there is only blinding pain and the terror that he might split, and there’ll be blood, he thinks as he lets out a tortured groan, so much blood on the damn stool-

And then it’s in. He feels so full and heavy and hot. His breath comes in short gasps and his legs tremble, and he’s so tired again, he’s always tired here, and he just slumps down and stops moving. They both wait for his breath to slow down.

Once the pain seems to have dimmed for him, he slowly releases Aleqi’s hands and opens his eyes to look at her. For the first time since they’ve met, she smiles at him.

“You do good,” she praises him with her funny Westerosi manner of speaking and he finds himself returning her small smile with his own tired one.

“Thank you,” he answers, embarrassment making him blush. Why does it feel good to be praised for this? Is this his life now, these his achievements? 

He looks down and realizes with a groan he’s still hard. He wills his erection away, but it doesn’t appear to be going anywhere. Aleqi ignores this and leans back on her seat as Jon tries to get more comfortable even though it seems impossible considering how stuffed he feels.

“Stop thinking so much. We must talk about today,” the Myrwoman says, causing him to look up at her. She picks up a piece of fruit and feeds it to him. He only hesitates for a moment before reaching up and grasping it with his lips.

“Today Master comes to see you, since you’re better,” she begins, and Jon’s muscles tighten up noticeably in tension. “You must behave. He gets what he wants, whatever it is. Your job is to please him and obey.”

Jon breathes in air slowly, looking at Aleqi with guilt. Last time she paid for his stubbornness. He wouldn’t let that happen again.

“You must prepare yourself for him with your fingers, and you must wait for him on your knees by the bed. He will take you tonight, and every night until you’re ready for other men. He talks, you listen,” she recites, feeding him some more fruit. He takes it and hold him between his teeth, listening to her intensely.

“You speak when spoken to. Always call him Master. It is important.”

She lets the words sink in and holds out another bite for him. Jon looks at her through his eyelashes, he swallows the piece he was holding in his mouth, but doesn’t take the next.

“I’m sorry,” he says in his gruff voice. He doesn’t elaborate, as more words seem to be failing him.

Aleqi blinks and stares at him with her passive green eyes, but Jon thinks he sees something he can’t quite define in there this time.

“I know,” she tells him at last, nodding her head soberly. “I understand. I was once like you. Proud and with a thick head. I come from money, like you.”

Jon looks to the side for a moment and frowns.

“I don’t come from money,” he says, because no one until now has ever asked him his name and he’s happy with that. He won’t risk people knowing who he is, or what he did. Who knows what they would do with a former king. Who wouldn’t enjoy debasing and using a king from Westeros. If he’s learnt something, Essosi are quite jealous of his country, of its freedom, of its self-righteousness. They don’t know it’s all a stupid lie. Westerosi are just as cruel, just as ruthless in their own way.

He silences the tiny voice telling him that Sosruqo might want to ransom him to his family for quite a sum of money. 

He won’t do that to Sansa, he won’t have her see him like this. He won’t let her pay for him. Even if she did, she’s be obliged to send him to the Wall, she’d have to say goodbye to him again. He can’t see that look on her face again. And Bran. . . Well, Bran must know where he is, and he must have known all along. If he wants to help him, he knows where to find him.

So no, letting anyone know who he is, or who he was, he decides, can bring him nothing good.

“I used to be a soldier. I fought for the North,” he tells her, glad that it’s only a half lie.

Her eyes are skeptical. Jon doesn’t offer anything more and finally she sighs, letting him off the hook.

“Well, I understand it. But you accept it now. Once a slave, always a slave,” she tells him. “It is like that.”

He thinks she might be meaning ‘ _it is what it is_ ’. 

She holds out the bite for him with more insistence now.

He lets her hand-feed him. He wiggles on his knees trying to get comfortable around the thing filling him up

It is what it is.

  
  


*

  
  


That evening Aleqi comes back to tell him to prepare himself, and he does so with no objections. She stands there making sure he obeys. Once again he grows slightly hard at the pressure of his own fingers. Once again it’s uncomfortable and it won’t go away.

It is what it is.

Soon she leaves him alone, kneeling by the bed, with instructions not to look up until Sosruqo comes and allows it. The door unlocks and locks again once she disappears behind it.

He’s tempted to stand as he waits, the last of his pride tickling at him, but he forces himself to stay and remember why he’s doing this.

After what feels like a full moon cycle, his door unlocks again and someone, presumably Sosruqo, enters.

Jon does not look up, forcing himself to be animatedly interested in the floor. 

“I see Aleqi’s finally taught you something,” the Tyroshi slaver says.

_Don’t answer. Do. Not. Answer._

Sosruqo comes nearer and finally Jon can see the tip of his shoes through his lashes. 

“You may look up, boy.”

Jon does and takes in the blue-haired man. There’s no guard with him today. They don’t fear him anymore.

“Mhm, we’ll need to work on that murderous glare. But not today. Actually I quite enjoy it, it makes you look even prettier,” he tells Jon with a wink. Jon makes sure to show no reaction at all, but he doesn’t look away. The man just grins and sits on the edge of the bed, his knees spread.

“I think you and I have never really talked. And while I appreciate you not being a talker,” he teases, “it’s time we get to know one another. So you may speak freely now, so long as you address me with due respect.”

Jon has really nothing to say that would sound even remotely respectful, so he prefers to pass.

“What is your name?”

Jon had prepared for the question of course.

“Eddison,” he answers, hoping the beat he waited before answering went unnoticed. 

Sosruqo raises an eyebrow at him, and waits.

“Master,” mumbles Jon belatedly and the man nods in approval. Jon almost sighs in relief.

“Eddison,” repeats Sosruqo, looking around the room with a meditative frown. “Mhm, it won’t do,” he concludes after a few moments, “you’re too pretty for such a name. I’ll have to think of something else.”

He seems to put aside the matter for the moment, and looks at Jon again.

“And how did you come to be first sold?”

Jon had prepared for this too.

“I fought in the Northern army. First in Winterfell and then in King’s Landing. After the Dragon Queen’s death, her Dothrakis were looking for revenge. All I know is I was on a ship headed for the North and suddenly I woke up and I was the cellar of the ship, headed here. They must have sold many others from our troops. I think my wine was spiked with something so it’s not clear to me how it came to happen,” Jon ends the story there, hoping it might be enough. It’s not so far from the truth.

“Where in the North?” asks suddenly Sosruqo after a moment of silence, surprising Jon.

“Pardon?”

“Where in the North were you headed. And that’s the last time I let your disrespect slide, boy,” threatens the Tyroshi, squinting at Jon.

Where does he come from? He hadn’t thought of that. 

“Bear Island,” he spits out impulsively. So he’s one of the few survivors of a sixty-two men army. 

It is what it is.

“Master,” he adds, hoping it’s not too late.

“Bear Island?” questions Sosruqo, sounding unconvinced.

“Yes, Master,” answers Jon, remembering not to slip and at the same time going over everything Maester Luwin ever told him about Bear Island’s history. But then again, such lessons were never too enforced on him, as he would never rule the North. It was the Lady of Bear Island in the end to name him King in the North.

“You still have family there?”

“Y-yes,” he says, the pain the query causes him has him stumble over the words. “A sister, Master.”

“She’s alone? No man to care for her?” asks the man with raised eyebrows.

“I- Women in Bear Island are self-sufficient. They don’t need a man to care for them,” answers Jon thinking of little Lyanna Mormont, who had killed an undead giant before being crushed to death. 

“Master.”

_Seven Hells is this going to be hard._

Sosruqo lowers his brows and stands up suddenly, heading to the table, where he pours himself some wine. He brings the goblet back to the bed where he sits down again. Jon does not move.

“Have a sip,” bids the man and presses the goblet to Jon’s hand. It’s the first time he’s allowed to drink for himself. Jon bites his own lip for a second and then reluctantly drinks a bit of the wine, before handing the goblet back.

“So,” begins again Sosruqo, “you fought for the King in the North?”

His breath stucks in Jon’s throat.

“I fought for the Starks, Master,” he answers, trying to stay clear of his own part in the war.

“Yes, of course, but I hear the Stark bastard was king for a while.”

  
“Yes, Master,” concedes Jon, while a thin layer of sweat gathers on his forehead.

“I hear he killed the Dragon Queen himself,” states Sosruqo, with curiosity in his voice. And yet, it’s no question.

“I heard as much, Master. I wasn’t there,” answers Jon in a controlled voice. Inside of his chest, his heart beats fast at the painful memory, and at the risk of being discovered. He just has to distract the man from his questions, and he was told he could speak freely. 

“What are you planning on doing with me here?” asks Jon and then adds in a afterthought, “Master.”

Sosruqo seems amusedly taken aback by Jon’s forwardness. He grins at Jon and sips some wine from the same goblet he’d offered the kneeling man.

“Why, I’m planning on fucking you, of course,” he replies, leaning back to place a hand on the mattress behind him. Jon notices a bulge in his breeches.

“Aleqi can teach you many things, but not how to be fucked by a man. Luckily for me,” he adds as he stares down at Jon, “I don’t mind teaching that, especially not to such a pretty slave.”

Jon says nothing. He just tries to breathe in and out, the temptation to stand up and attack him pulsing strongly in his veins.

“Stand up,” orders Sosruqo, still leaning back on his hand. Jon swallows once before slowly raising himself to his feet. He’s once again completely aware of his own nakedness, so he settles on looking right ahead, at the wall.

“Set the wine back on the table. Then come back to me.”

It takes Jon a moment to shake himself and do as he’s told. He takes the goblet from the man’s hand and turns quickly around. 

“Walk slowly, let me enjoy the view,” he hears Sosruqo say, and with a steadying inhalation, Jon slows down his pace and almost sluggishly sets the wine on the table, before turning and heading back to the man.

He stands before him, enjoying the feeling of finally towering over him, and not the other way around. He pictures himself slowly encircling the Tyroshi’s neck and tightening his fingers, cutting the man’s breath and watching it turning blue and purple, as his fingers try to claw at Jon’s, they get weaker and weaker…

“Stand closer, between my legs,” orders Sosruqo, shaking Jon out of his reverie. 

Once he’s standing between the man’s knees, he looks down at him, watching with both trepidation and excitement. He could kill him in this moment. What would happen?

Sosruqo caresses Jon’s hip gently, looking him up and down. 

“You are beautiful,” he says, though it doesn’t sound as a compliment to Jon, more a thought to himself. The man’s hand goes to Jon’s buttock, slowly stroking his cheek. 

“Have you prepared yourself?” the man asks, looking up at Jon’s face, and at the same time slipping a finger between his cheeks, sliding over his crack.

Jon’s throat is dry so he just nods reluctantly.

“Words, pet,” berates Sosruqo, his voice much lower than before. He looks way more patient today than he was before Jon got sick. 

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. I expect you to prepare yourself each time a client or I plan on visiting you. If you neglect to, it’s your own problem. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” says Jon, even though between the shame and the obsessive wish to murder him he can’t think clearly.

“Here, straddle me,” suggests Sosruqo, taking and pulling one of his hands, so as to have Jon climb on his lap. Jon is so tense in his movements, he can barely manage without stumbling.

He feels the man’s still covered hard member under him. Jon’s breath becomes more and more laboured.

“Hands on my shoulders,” bids Sosruqo.

After just a second, Jon’s hands are so close to his neck, the fantasy coming alive again in Jon’s mind.

“Rub up against me. Slowly. Tease me,” orders the Tyroshi, looking straight at Jon’s eyes. Jon hesitates and the man’s hands come to his hips, guiding him into a rocking pace.

“Yes, like that, like a woman would,” says the man, clearly enjoying the comparison, but Jon is too lost in his own blood-thirsty thoughts to really care. He just keeps rotating against the man’s pelvis, the friction causing Jon himself to harden.

His hands slid closer to the man’s throat, but he doesn’t stop moving, dancing on the man’s lap.

“I see you, boy, think again,” suddenly warns the man, making Jon blink twice, his hands and hips still where they are.

“You think you’re the first slave to think of killing me?” asks Sosruqo, his hands gripping Jon’s hips harder. Jon is forced to keep rubbing up against him, even as he stares into the man’s eyes with rising panic in his chest.

“Let me tell you this, before you try anything. Yes, keep moving, I quite enjoy it,” he says in a lighter tone, before continuing, “if you kill me, the guards will find you soon, and you and all the slaves in this house will be first raped by them and the sold at the highest offer. You don’t know who you’ll go to, but people aren’t too kind to a bed slave who killed his own master. You’ll never see Aleqi, or that boy you’ve become friends with again. Good, keep rocking like that,” he bids, as Jon’s heart almost beats his way out of his chest, his sight clouding at the menace in the man’s words. “But if you don’t kill me, I’ll make sure you never use those hands again. You don’t need them after all, all you need is this,” he says and one of his hands goes to Jon’s butt, one finger pushing through his slick canale. “And this,” he kisses Jon in a rush, surprising him. Jon tries to pull away, but the finger inside him crooks, the intense sensation stilling him and causing him to gasp against the man’s lips. 

The man’s tongue slips into Jon’s mouth and slowly caresses his tongue. Two fingers enter him, and Jon is stuck between a rock and a hard place. The fingers are doing things to him that keep him from moving.

The one-sided kiss ends and Jon blinks a few times to find the man’s face really close to his own.

“I can tie you up in the pillory and leave you there for the remainder of your stay. I have a lot of clients that would enjoy taking you like that. I could gag you so that your mouth stays open. People could fuck your mouth and you wouldn’t be able to say a thing. Your only worry would be to breathe."

Jon is still now, his lips slightly open and his dark eyes focused on the man's face, horrified and yet entranced by Sosruqo's words.

"Not to mention what would happen to your beloved teacher."

The two fingers scissor inside him and Jon gasps, his mind a mix of hate and fear and excitement. Sosruqo leans close to his ear.

"Get on all fours," he whispers cruelly, not a doubt in his voice that Jon will comply.

His fingers retract and Jon is pulled to the center of the bed, on his hands and knees. He hates this position, the way it makes him feel like an animal ready to be mounted and bred. His arms tremble in tension and his member is still pointing up. Jon lowers his head and groans silently at the ache. He hears the shuffling sound of clothes being removed and prepares himself as he can to accept the pain that he knows is coming, if anything he remembers from his days in the pillory room is true.

“You’re so beautiful. Your body is built as a statue, the gold you will make me,” states Sosruqo and once again he’s speaking to himself. 

Jon burrows his fingers deep into the silk sheets, feeling the fabric on his hard skin. He bites his upper lip and tries to inhale through his nose. He just wants to get this over with.

Sosruqo finally joins him on the bed and takes Jon’s hips in his hands, and in one swift move, he enters Jon with a satisfied groan. Jon arches his back at the burning sensation, his eyes shutting at the agony. 

Sosruqo is still for a brief moment and then starts to move. He pushes deep into Jon, who arches his back again, trying to move without getting away, and it takes all of his self-control not to fight the man.

“Push back against me, you’ll like it,” orders Sosruqo between his gasps of pleasure and reinforces the grip on Jon’s flanks. Jon balks, turning around to glare at him with raw venom. “It’s not a suggestion, boy,” he adds with a slap to Jon’s thigh and renews the strength of his strokes

Jon’s cheek colour in shame as he pants and moans, while rocking back against the man’s groin. It buries deeper inside his walls and Jon wonders whatever he might like about this. He just wants it out. He wants the man to just find release so Jon can sag on the bed and just be free of pain.

The man’s hand pushes at his shoulders until Jon guesses he has to lay his head on the bed. Fearing he might cry out, he bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He twists the sheets with his hands and tries to push back so the man can delve into him deeper. That’s what he wants, so let him have it. But let him have it quick, he tells himself with bitterness. The man groans at Jon’s movement, causing Jon to hate himself for pleasing him. But he has no choice. 

Sosruqo suddenly burrows his hand Jon’s hair and pulls at it. He gives a particularly strong thrust and Jon rocks back against him, groaning loudly.

Everything hurts, from his hands, to his arched back to his insides. Until Sosruqo’s penis touches a spot deep inside Jon’s guts and a shattering shock of pleasure goes through Jon’s spine, then back and directs to Jon’s member. It lengthens, growing achingly swollen between Jon’s stomach and the white and gold sheets. Jon shuts his eyes and opens his mouth, panting at the feeling and caught off guard.  
  
He can’t feel the pull at his hair, and the burning has dimmed, there is only a series of jolts going through him and with a relief he himself cannot fathom, he feels himself opening, welcoming Sosruqo’s thrusts against his own volition.

“ _You might find out you enjoy it, you know._ ”

Sosruqo’s words from over a week prior replay cruelly in Jon’s overstimulated mind. To find truth in that breaks Jon down more than being split in two. But his body won’t recoil, it decides for him and gives into it. Jon can’t swallow down a reluctant cry of pleasure.

_Bastard blood_ , he thinks in the throes of pleasure, _is it true then what they say? Born of lust and deceit. Killing the woman he loves, a sinful love. Enjoying this violence._

The man keeps targeting that spot inside him and Jon loses track of time. How long have they been at it? He gives a dry sob as he arches his back again and he tries to rub himself against the sheets, but cannot get enough friction.

_No, I am not a bastard_ , Jon remembers faintly.

“No, you don’t -” says Sosruqo stifling a groan, “you don’t come until I say.”

_Please. I can’t. Just let me-_

Jon forgets, he forgets he’s supposed to hate this.

The Tyroshi thrusts again and again until Jon’s thighs start trembling under him.

After another powerful thrust, Jon’s legs give out and they both fall onto the bed. Sosruqo keeps going at it, not letting Jon rest for a moment. He bites Jon’s shoulder and gives one final stroke. He spills himself inside Jon with a cry.

Sosruqo sags against Jon and caresses his arms, his grip around Jon’s muscles heavy but not uncomfortable. Jon feels the man’s penis grow smaller until it slips out of his used canal, and it rests between his sticky cheeks.

"You are not to release today," Sosruqo murmurs tiredly. "Tomorrow, perhaps."

Jon is quiet. He can think only of how it terrifies him good he played the part, and how well he fit into the role. And how it didn't feel like pretending.

There was a moment where not fighting him wasn't a struggle anymore and Jon realizes only now he's standing on a precipice and he's about to fall down.

Shivering, he waits for Sosruqo to move away, but he doesn't. 

"Remember what I told you," the man mumbles when Jon starts thinking he might have fallen asleep.

A tear leaves the corner of Jon’s eye as he wishes for oblivion to claim him.


	8. But Do Not Ask The Price I Paid

The following morning Jon wakes still under the weight of Sosruqo’s body. The feeling of being trapped is suddenly too much for Jon’s already unsettled mind and he tries to shuffle away without waking the man up. He’s halfway squirmed away from under the man, when he feels a hand grasp his hip and he stills. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” asks Sosruqo groggily.

“I need to relieve myself, Master,” offers Jon as an excuse, trying to get off the bed.

“Later,” bids the Tyroshi sounding more awake. “You woke me up. Now you deal with it.”

Before Jon can wonder what that means, Sosruqo pulls at his hip and the man’s hardness is pressed to his buttocks, nestling in the crevice between Jon’s cheeks. Jon bites down an anxious whimper; he’s not prepared. 

“Master, please,” he pleads, without knowing what he’s asking for.

“There’s no rest for whores, my beautiful slave,” replies Sosruqo kissing Jon’s neck. Jon sighs in defeat as he feels the man’s cock push at his circle of nerves. He’s laying on his side, and Sosruqo’s body is pressed to his back. Jon turns his head, pressing his face to the mattress, willing himself away.

_Not again, please._

When Sosruqo enters him, Jon opens his mouth and lets out a silent cry, as his walls stretch around the thick shaft. He hates the hands holding him still, and even more because he could easily fight his way out of them. Nonetheless he forces his body to stay pliant and let itself be moved here and there, whichever way is best to accommodate its penetration. Jon just breathes against the sheets, his only way of separating himself from what’s happening.

Sosruqo’s strokes are languid, unrushed and deep, and the man leaves kisses and licks on the side of Jon’s throat. After a particularly deep thrust the man pulls at Jon’s hair, twisting his head sideways, and takes Jon’s lips in his. Jon had never kissed a man before arriving in Sosruqo’s pleasure house, and it’s nothing like kissing a woman. It has no sweetness, no tender lapping, the man seems to want to suck Jon’s will away from him. It tastes saltier and coppery, it tastes like blood. Sosruqo’s teeth sink into Jon’s lower lip and Jon recoils in disgust. This feels more wrong than anything he's had to do till now. It's too intimate and kissing means something valuable to Jon, more than simply being a receptacle for someone else's pleasure and depravity. 

“Kiss back,” orders the Tyroshi, pulling at his curls again. 

Jon looks at him with bitterness for a moment before he’s pulled into the assault once again. He forces himself to move his lips and caress the tongue inside his mouth, thus obeying, even as his guts twist painfully, making him feel nauseous. 

Trying to calm himself he shuts his eyes and suddenly pictures of his first kiss appear in his mind's eye. A redhead, though not Ygritte. Ros, he remembers, a whore from Winter Town. He remembers being terrified of her, a boy not yet fully grown, and she had been so sweet to him. She had left a soft kiss on his untouched lips. Had she ever been terrified, forced to lay with men to survive? Had she hated every moment of it, and yet accepted to give herself over and over, as Jon does now?

Sosruqo’s hand moves to Jon’s half hard member and gives a few lazy strokes, causing Jon to leave his train of thoughts and squirm in discomfort. 

“You’re enjoying this, don’t pretend,” says Sosruqo against his lips.

Jon shuts his eyes and doesn’t reply, he just lays still in the cage that his body has become. His groin responds to the languid movements of the blue-haired man and Jon can do nothing to deny that, not to anyone, not to himself. His member throbs painfully under the Tyroshi’s ministrations. 

The thrusts become more rushed and less deep and Sosruqo’s hand suddenly closes tightly against the base of Jon’s shaft, excluding any chance of orgasm. Jon whimpers inside Sosruqo’s mouth. Sosruqo responds with an animalistic growl and comes inside Jon, for the second time now. Jon feels dirty and sticky and disgusting and he just wants to clean himself, and he wants to take himself in his hand. And he wants to cut off that hand. 

He used to fight for the good. He used to be a shield, always protecting the weak. 

It had started when he was young. Whenever his father beheaded a slaver, or a rapist, Jon used to watch, always one step behind Robb, but always the most attentive observer. Robb always stood quietly, the weight of his own future on his shoulders. Jon would notice every little thing: the expression on his father’s face and the one on the criminal’s. He would listen, weigh every word and every movement, and understand the solemnity and the seriousness of such a moment. He wouldn’t smirk, the way Theon did, who so seemed to love the sight of blood. That wasn’t Jon.

Jon saw the big picture. He wished for that responsibility and for the pain of ending a life, with the knowledge that the greater good demanded justice. 

He’d learnt that pain later in life, but it kept him human and humble. Now he feels he’s lost the grip to that control, and he cannot see the bigger picture anymore. There is only chaos in him now.

“Stop thinking, boy,” Sosruqo whispers drowsily into his ear. “It does you no good.”

Jon silently agrees and trembles in the man’s loose embrace. He waits to be set free.

*

The days that follow go similarly. In the mornings Aleqi comes, each time with something new for Jon to learn, with new rules. He’s never allowed out and he’s never allowed to feed himself. In the evenings Aleqi comes back to help him prepare for Sosruqo’s arrival. Jon always waits on his knees with cramps in his stomach.

For all his many reservations, Jon seems to learn quickly what Sosruqo wants, and, since the man has a natural jovial temperament, he’s almost always in a good mood, except once, after Jon forgets to address him properly and Aleqi gets slapped for it. Knowing he has messed up, that day Jon begs for forgiveness on his knees, but his apologies go unheard and Aleqi pays for it. It never happens again. 

When Sosruqo demands that Jon pleasure him with his mouth, Jon does not resist, for he’s already been prepared by Aleqi, and because the mark of the slap is still imprinted on her cheek. Humiliated and with heavy breathing, he follows Sosruqo’s directions, be it to use more tongue, or to suck harder, or to not neglect the testicles. His hands must remain behind his back, as it’s an amateur mistake to use them, explains Sosruqo when Jon’s slightly trembling hands go to rest on his pelvis. Jon puts his hands away with an anxious breath and relinquishes all control over to the man towering over him. When it’s over and Jon kneels quietly, aware of the man’s spunk on the corner of his mouth, he’s so infuriated he can’t stop shaking. He scrubs his arm across his mouth with rage under Sosruqo’s watchful eye.

“Don’t you dare do that with a client,” he warns darkly. Jon simply shuts his eyes and forces himself to nod, still panting. He’s going to have to do this again and again, stranger after stranger, he thinks, as a sense of desperation quells momentarily his anger. His emotions are all over the place, and he struggles to rein them in in front of the man.

Sosruqo sighs, finally taking his eyes off him. 

“Go to sleep, now. You’ve done well,” he says and leaves him alone for the night. 

In over a week Sosruqo takes Jon in several different positions. One morning Jon makes the mistake of waking the sleeping body crushing him and he’s told to straddle the man’s legs and impale himself. Sosruqo is sleepy and doesn’t want to move too much but his libido is unhindered. Jon is instructed to lean back and arch his back, his hands resting on the man’s thighs.

“Let me see you dance on my cock,” Sosruqo whispers to him, and Jon glares at him in rage as he struggles to open himself up around the man’s penis. 

“Less glaring and more fucking. Unless you need me to remind your teacher of her job,” threatens Sosruqo, who, Jon has learned, is always attentive to his slave’s expressions. While he personally seems to enjoy Jon’s ‘fire’, as he calls it, his clients expect perfect submission. This is not a shitty brothel on the docks, where one can only find the dregs of society; Sosruqo only has professionals. A demure expression is what Jon should aspire to, he’s told.

Jon arches and rocks slowly and unrelentingly on the man’s groin, and, with growing rage and a feeling of power he hasn’t felt since Westeros, he watches as pleasure darkens the man’s face. After what seems like an infinite time, Sosruqo puts his hands on Jon’s hips and brings him up until only the head of his cock is inside Jon, whose pucker spasms around the shaft. Suddenly Jon is pulled down with unexpected strength and lets out a cry of pain at being filled again. After that he’s made to practically bounce on the man’s cock, Jon’s own red and neglected member dangling between them. Anger rises even stronger inside Jon, like a storm coming, as both his body for showing a reaction to this and at Sosruqo for evoking such reactions in him only to leave him frustrated and guilty.

No matter what they do, Sosruqo always spills inside Jon, and Jon remains mostly untouched. Frustration nags at Jon when he is left alone. He’s been kept locked up in this lavish bedroom for over a week and there is nothing for him to do except think of what has become of him. He hasn’t been given anything to cover himself or to entertain himself. The single window is up high on the wall. It’s long and thin, so that only some light can pass through, surely not a person. Jon watches the sky get darker during the day and wonders how the sun can still come up and life can still go on outside, when his existence has turned upside down. Jon remembers with bitterness all the roles he’s covered in his life. A lord’s bastard, a position he used to hate with all his being. Now the memories are laced with nostalgia, as he remembers what it felt to be with family, even though he used to be the black sheep. His brother’s laughter resounding in his earsv suddenly morphs into Grenn’s, Pip’s and Sam, as he thinks fondly of his time as a brother of the Night’s Watch. As hard as his time at Castle Black was, it would always be the most formative period of Jon’s life. He grew up among those poor and forgotten boys, and learned to be a man. Until he found out that being a man wasn’t always easy. 

Forced by the circumstances, he became a Wildling, at least for a time. He lied and lied until the line between truth and pretence got blurred. And yet he overcame that too, the loss of himself and of his old beliefs, as he raised to become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and lead an impossible war, fighting for the realms of men. And then he died, and when he came back, once again he had to overcome his biggest betrayal. And he did that, in name of the fight still to come. Because of how he fought, and because he was the only chance for his people at the time, he was named King and that’s when things started to go wrong again. He messed up, trying to do good, trying to be loyal to a woman he loved. He went from King to Warden of the North, and then, suddenly and with no warning, the truth he’d wished for his whole life came and turned him into. the Heir to the Iron Throne. Except that he always was heir to the Throne, among all else. 

All of those lies, all those secrets his Father kept, to protect him. It was all for nothing, Jon thinks now. Father never could have protected him from this. All those lies of his only made Jon a traitor. And as a traitor, he was sentenced to join the Night’s Watch again, cousin to the the King of the Six Kingdoms and to the Queen in The North. And now, all that is long gone, and he’s nothing more than a slave. He started at the end of the ladder, got to the top, and the ladder fell on itself. And now there is only chaos in his head, no plan. Just a swelling rage.

Jon hands itch for something to do, and with every day that passes he’s more and more sullen, snapping at Aleqi when she’s with him, though never at Sosruqo, lest there might be repercussions. When they lay together though, it is more violent. Jon participates actively and brings out all of his rage, turning pain into anger. Though he doesn’t fail to obey, he rocks and thrusts back and bounces with a rush and a fury that Sosruqo can barely contain. 

One morning Jon is on top of him, turned the opposite way, with his back to the man, and he’s making it his mission to bring the Tyroshi to completion in a blur. Sosruqo can barely utter a meaningful sentence as Jon uses the muscles of his thighs to impale himself deeper and deeper with every forceful bounce. When he feels the man shoot inside him, Jon still can’t stop, so lost in his imaginary fight. He’s killing something, maybe himself.

Sosruqo lays a hand on his sweaty back, gently stroking his spine. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” soothes the man, “stop now.”

Jon stills almost immediately, leaning on his hands as he pants for air. Sosruqo spreads his legs, causing Jon to fall seated on the sheets between them. Suddenly the man’s back is pressed against his, and an arm goes around him, hugging his heaving chest. Jon struggles to breathe, and his skin burns where their bodies join.

“I think someone needs some air.”

_Yes, you crazy shit, I need some air, outstanding observational skills._

“Yes, Master,” he answers, careful to keep any inflection off his tone.

“You’ve been good lately. I think I’ll have Aleqi show you to the gardens this morning. As long as you promise to behave.”

“Yes, Master,” he acquiesces, so desperate for a change of scenery. He hates these walls, this lavish room, and the comfortable bed where he’s daily thoroughly shagged. In the loneliest moments he has wished for death only to stubbornly refuse the thought. He begs the Gods not to let him die in this room.

*

When Aleqi comes to see him that day, the mahogany door is finally unlocked and left open. As Aleqi washes him, Jon’s attention is on the hall outside. A guard stands before the entrance, partly hindering Jon’s view of the hall, his back to the room, whip held between his crossed hands.

Two men pass in front of the guard. Jon only manages to notice one of them is halfway naked, only wearing white braies that are open on the back of his thighs, fabric flapping around and showing his skin with every step he takes. The other man whispers something in his ears, causing him to laugh, and before Jon can think anything of it, they’re gone.

“Alright, out. You wear this,” says Aleqi and, when Jon turns to look at her she’s holding up a pair of red braies, similar to the ones the man he just saw was wearing. They’re open on the back.

“You can’t be serious,” he tells the Myrwoman. 

“If you want to stay here locked, then you must not wear,” she answers quickly, lowering the garment, and Jon hurries to get out of the bath and take his complaint back.

“No, no, alright. I wear this,” he tells her, lightly mocking her broken Westerosi, and he takes the braies from her hands and quickly slips them on. She squints her green eyes at him.

“You not funny,” she berates, causing Jon to grin at her innocently. Knowing he can leave this room has him in an unusually giddy mood, but then Aleqi seems to be the person who understands him the most here so far. Sometimes when she looks at him, Jon can swear she knows exactly what he’s feeling, though she never comments on it. It’s just a look that they share, and Jon knows he’s not going mad, someone gets him. 

There is something in her that inexplicably reminds him of Sansa. It could be the way she bosses him around, almost mothering him, or the cold but indulgent voice she uses, when she knows she ought to be harder on him, but just can’t. Sansa never made it easy for him, but then again there were times when Jon knew she could have been a lot more difficult. In the end, he always found a way to make her smile indulgently at him, and he secretly knew she couldn’t help it. He smiles sadly, a sudden wave of nostalgia washing over him painfully.

“Well?” prompts Aleqi, standing close to the door.

Jon sighs, pushing thoughts of Sansa away and nods.  
  
“Stay close,” bids Aleqi before stepping out of the door, the entrance vacated by the guard, who stands waiting in the middle of the hall. Jon eyes the man warily, before following the Myrwoman who dances elegantly across the floor, leading him through a long corridor he’s never seen. He’s reminded that he was unconscious when he was brought to his room. The walls are covered in the same golden and red tapestry he saw downstairs the day he was brought in. There are other five doors on the floor, all closed, notes Jon glancing around. On each door Jon sees a small raised circle, but he can’t think of what its function might be.

“This is second floor, where new slaves are,” explains Aleqi as she leads him through the long corridor. “First floor is play room, kitchen and Master Sosruqo’s chambers and his study, where he deals with clients and merchants. Young boys are on third, together with my room and other teachers,” she reveals as they go down the first staircase. Jon notices a guard awaits them under the stairs, but his mind is going over Aleqi’s words. How many slaves teach in this house? Are all the rooms on his floor occupied? That would mean there are five new slaves apart from him. And yet Sosruqo seems to be spending all his evenings with him, so who would train the others?

As they walk across the first floor the guard follows them.

“Fourth floor are the trained bed slaves. You must not go there, they have right to privacy,” Aleqi tells him with a quieter voice. “Ground floor you have seen,” she says at last as they reach it, “It is where clients are welcomed. There is also garden and baths, you can go there on free time. Kitchen is off limits and so Master Sosruqo’s quarters.” 

“Is he in there?” he asks, suddenly afraid the man might change his mind and ask to see Jon.

“No,” replies Aleqi, settling Jon’s unease. “He’s gone away for the day. A hunting party with friends. He comes back in the evening.”

She leads Jon to the right side of the hall, through a wide arch. Jon notices two guards at every window, all carrying a whip.

“There is no one around,” he tells her quietly as they walk, meaning no one besides the guards. 

“It is morning,” Aleqi answers with a light shrug, “bed slaves rest. There is always someone in the garden, you see.”

As the hall gets less and less dark, Jon can hear chatter and cheerful laughs. Children.

As they step into an inner yard covered in grass and yellow flowers, and enclosed in high smooth marble walls, Jon makes out the figure of four children playing with each other by a wide pool. 

“I see,” he tells Aleqi, stopping mid-step as the corners of his mouth turn slightly upwards. This looks so… normal. It feels like ages have passed since he’s seen something so simple. Two children are chasing each other, laughing out loud. One, a long-haired boy, sits quietly, watching the other boys from under the shadow of a pear tree.

Close by, a black haired boy plays with a wooden sword. After one particularly powerful swing, he twirls. It’s Mazin, who widens his eyes as soon as he notices Jon. 

“It’s my friend!” he screams excitedly, dropping his toy and running towards Jon, who greets him with a smile. 

“Who’s winning? Air?” he teases him when the boy gets to him.

“Wh-? Oh, no, I was just practicing. Want to see?” asks the boy, jumping on his toes. Jon nods indulgently and follows him, leaving Aleqi to sit on a stone bench near a water fountain. “Master told me I could have a toy and I asked for a sword,” babbles the boy as they walk. “ I know it’s not a real one, but I like it.”

Jon hates to hear that the man tries to buy the innocent boy’s cooperation.

“It’s a nice sword,” he tells Mazin with a smile, before becoming serious.

“Just… don’t trust the man,” he adds in a lower voice after some hesitation. 

Mazin looks at Jon with intelligent eyes and bites his own lip. Jon takes him by the shoulder and leads to a slightly more secluded corner of the garden. 

“Did he do anything to you?” Jon asks. “Did he make _you_ do anything?” 

“No,” answers the boy seriously. “He came a couple times to get Kleo, but I don’t know what happened, and Kleo wouldn’t tell me. I only see the teacher.”

Jon raises his eyebrows.

“And what does he teach you?”

“Things to say,” Mazin tells him with a shrug. “How to serve a meal, mostly.”

They still haven’t touched him, deduces Jon. The same can’t be said for the other boys. Jon can’t even go there. And he can’t think of how he will feel when Mazin will be trained enough to…

“I want you to listen to me,” he tells him with a serious tone, clasping both of the boy’s bony shoulders in his hands. “I want you to make mistakes, be slow to learn,” he says and Mazin widens his eyes in surprise. “Don’t disobey directly, I don’t want you to get punished. Just, learn as slowly as you can. Make questions, waste time. The longer they take to teach you, the better.”

Mazin stares at him for a moment, before nodding solemnly. Jon doesn’t know whether the boy understands fully what they want from him, especially if the other children haven’t talked to him. Jon doesn’t have the heart to tell him, but there’s a good chance Mazin knows, or can guess. He’s far from stupid.

“Hey, get back to the center,” orders a guard, striding towards them. He must have noticed them speaking too much.

The two running boys stop for a moment and spare Jon a glance but otherwise ignore him and they go back to playing. Jon notices they look all very thin, thinner than Mazin. He’s suddenly reminded of the last conversation he had with the Naathi boy. Sosruqo clearly doesn’t feed them enough, and the more he looks at the thin, weak looking children, the more Jon can guess the reason behind it. Children grow. To someone owning a business on the basis that the assets are children that poses a problem. 

He nods at the guard and leads Mazin back to his previous spot, worry still in his mind.

“Look,” the boy prompts him and Jon only takes a moment before giving him his full attention. The boy’s feet are separated and his knees bent, and he holds the little weapon up a little wobbly. After a few seconds he starts running towards Jon with a battle cry, causing Jon to widen his eyes and laugh. He holds out an arm and stops the boy midrun, raising him easily and chuckling at the little legs swinging in the air.

“Alright,” he starts as he lowers the panting boy back to the ground, “Next time aim.”

Mazin looks at him with ridiculous outrage, before stomping back to where he’d started. Jon directs him, telling him where to put his feet, and how high to raise his sword. As he speaks, he can almost feel two eyes boring into his neck. As he turns and notices the boy under the tree is staring darkly at him with deep light blue eyes, Mazin runs towards him and pretends to stab him in the stomach. Jon turns back and smiles at the Naathi boy, massaging the spot where the sword lightly hit him. 

“You got me,” he says.

He turns back to the boy in the shadow and points at the sword. “You want to try?” he asks, trying to include the serious boy in the game. He can’t be older than nine. The boy stares at the sword for a moment before slowly shaking his head.

“That’s Agat,” whispers Mazin, “he never plays. He likes to stay on his own.”

Jon nods in understanding. He feels for the boy, he wouldn’t care about playing either, he guesses, if he were forced to do what the boy is most likely forced to do.

“How old is he?”

“He’s twelve,” replies Mazin, causing Jon to widen his eyes. It can’t be. He seems so… small. As Mazin goes back for another round, Jon looks back at the boy, who is still staring at the wooden sword with empty eyes.

Jon feels that lonely, lost part of himself that fights for the good tugging at his mind. He can do something about this. He can help them someway. Maybe he can’t help them escape, not yet at least, he’ll need to know the place better before he can plan anything like that. But he can find food. Maybe sneak into the kitchen, though with guards on every floor it would imply eliminating at least one. 

Sosruqo seems to have become more lenient with him, on the other hand. Maybe Jon can get in his good grace enough to slip through the cracks, and find a good way to…

He’s gone hunting, Jon remembers suddenly, pictures of hunting parties in the North in his mind. His Father used to bring him and Robb, and Theon later, all the way to the Wolfswood. His Father’s men and several squires would join them, and the woods would resound with laughter and chatter later in the evening, as the men drank and ate together a deer, the day’s largest trophy set aside to be brought back to the castle. 

If he can just convince the Tyroshi to bring him with on his hunting parties, he could steal some food, it won’t be too noticeable, if he’s careful.

Yes, he can do this, he tells himself and, with a lighter heart, he helps Mazin practice, a sense of purpose sparkling anew in him.

*

That night, as Sosruqo snores next to him, Jon’s mind keeps him awake. He thinks of the little boy, Agat, who spent the rest of his time in the garden braiding his own air instead of playing.

These boys are being trained to pleasure older men. Jon can see how Agat could lose interest in childish play, even reject it maybe. But Jon hated the look he saw in the boy’s eyes.

Jon looks sideways at the sleeping man and thinks of when to bring up the hunting party. He’s going to need the man to be in a perfect mood, completely satisfied with Jon. 

He’ll wait a few days, see if his new privileges are maintained. If Sosruqo keeps letting him out of his room, he must have some belief Jon will obey and not try anything. Jon will let him think that and then he will ask him, trying to make it seem as an innocent proposal.

He has no idea if it’ll work. But he has to try.

With the plan in his mind, he shuts his eyes and lets his sore body fall asleep.

*

Even though he’s now allowed to head to the gardens once a day, Jon still receives visits from Sosruqo. Aleqi’s lessons also increase in frequency and duration. He’s told Sosruqo is evaluating when Jon will be ready to see clients. Jon’s not holding his breath.

Jon looks out of the window in his room. He has been told to kneel at Sosruqo’s feet, so the man can feed him his breakfast. Jon’s hands must remain on his thighs, as relaxed as possible. Don’t let the Masters see you hate it, Aleqi keeps telling him during her lessons. Be as submissive as a horse to your Master and they will not be cruel. Jon thinks this is the hardest part for him, pretending not to hate it. But today is not the day to challenge his owner. Today he must be meek and calm, if he’s going to try to do something for the boys.

With every day he spends in the gardens, the kids’ poor conditions make Jon more and more convinced. He has to try this. He’d told Mazin too, he would try something. He would help them.

A hand appears in front of his mouth. Another red fruit the name of which he knows not. He’s never told what he’s fed. Jon opens his mouth and wraps his lips around it, trying to get away from the man’s fingers, but they follow him and he has to let them in his mouth. He suckles at them with little enthusiasm, but Sosruqo doesn’t seem to mind, for his eyes remain on the page of the book he’s reading. At last the fingers retract from his mouth and they end up on his head, caressing his hair. Jon does not move and suffers this humiliating petting with not a blink of an eye. The man is in a good mood. Now is the time. 

“Master.”

The man raises his eyes from his books and looks at him with intrigue.

“Yes, _Laehossa zōbri_?”

Dark eyes, it means. This is what the man now calls him more often than not. Jon thinks the Tyroshi has developed a liking for him, though it is hard to say whether he is simply being condescended to. If in his eyes Jon is no more than a pet, it’s probably just the way people speak to beloved animals. There is nothing Jon can really do about it, except use it, maybe.

He stares the man in the eyes and takes a moment before speaking, making it look as if he has just thought of this, when he has been ruminating on it for several nights by now.

“I was wondering, Master, if I might be of more use to you. “

The man’s eyebrows almost disappear under his blue curly hair.

“Oh. Do go on, pet.”

Jon gathers courage and speaks, trying to sound calm.

“I’m not sure I’ve mentioned this, Master, but I used to live in the North. Before, I mean.” Never forget to refer to the time when he was free as Before. Masters want their non-born slaves to clearly distinguish their life as free man from this life. As if he could ever forget.

“I believe I’ve heard something about that, pet, yes.”

Jon nods and continues: “In the North, if a man doesn’t hunt, he doesn’t eat. It’s vast and there are few towns. One can go a long way before he finds a tavern. I got quite good at hunting.”

It’s not true, he got truly better at hunting when he was North of the Wall, but he doesn’t need the man knowing that.

“And yet, you let yourself be caught, my sweet pet,” answers the man with a voice that threatens to become dangerous. Jon pauses for a moment, bitterness on his tongue.

“Yes, Master.”

The Man chuckles in amusement. Jon loses a bit of his bravado.

“Isn’t that ironic, pet?” asks the man. Rhetoric questions aren’t that rhetoric when addressed to slaves. Masters like being told they’re right.

“I guess so, Master.”

“You guess so?” prompts the man. He wants to see if he dares contradict him. He knows very well Jon was drugged the night the horse lords took over the ship and put him in chains. But that doesn’t count as much as the fact that Masters are always right, and they both know that.

“It is, Master,” answers Jon dutifully and the man grins at him. He bends his head and looks at him with amused pity, as one would look at a babe falling on his butt when trying his first steps. Jon looks down, silently fuming.

He hears the man sigh.

“As interesting as it is to hear of my good little hunter’s adventures, I believe you were trying to ask something of me. Something about being of use,” says the man, enjoying how the tables have turned. He’s now in charge of this conversation.

“Yes, Master,” says Jon, with his head bowed down. He’s afraid if he looks up, the man will see anger in his eyes. It cannot happen.

“Well, go on, _Laehossa zōbri_.”

Jon nods and steadies himself, once again.

“Maybe I could join you at your next hunt, Master. I could be of great help. Once my other duties are completed, of course.”

Silence is his only answer. He’s scared to look up.

“I just thought… I used to be a fighter, Master, always outside, always moving. And now, I’m always inside, and I barely ever move. It’s just… I get bored, at times,” he hurries to add “when you’re not there. Maybe if I could sometimes hunt for you, I could be of more pleasure to you when I’m inside.”

Once again, he’s met with silence.

“The guards would be there. I’m not trying to run, Master. I just thought I have skills that maybe you don’t want to waste,” he concludes, his heart beating faster.

“You want to please me better,” says Sosruqo. It’s no question, but Jon dutifully assents.

“Yes, Master.”

“Mmh. Look at me, Laehossa zōbri. Do not be afraid.”

Jon shuts his eyes for a quick moment and then looks up at the man. He looks calm, his blue eyes calculating as ever. The man puts a hand on his head and cards his fingers through his hair, his thumb on Jon’s cheek. Jon tries to look innocent and sad, and he thinks that is how he’s always looked in his life, sad and honest. And now it’s like he’s playing another person, someone who used to be him, but it’s not. He can’t be that person anymore, for he cannot refuse to play the game here, as he used to do in Westeros. He was above the game then, and now he plays his part for tiny morsels of freedom. He knows if he wins, it will feel like such a victory to him, to be able to feed four young boys some rabbit. This is what he has been reduced to.

“My beautiful little dark eyed pet,” whispers the man. “You are so pretty. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

The man keeps stroking him, and maybe it’s his intention to soothe him, but Jon’s guts tighten more and more with dread, the kinder the man’s words get. He overstepped, he knows it already. 

“So stupid,” the Master adds suddenly, his voice equally soothing, his head shaking indulgently, as if berating a puppy.

“Master-“ tries Jon, spooked.

“Shush, pet. Go and wait for me in my chambers,” orders the Master. His eyes have gone glacial, but his posture has not changed. He has to fix this. He overdid this.

“Master, I meant no dis-“ his speech is interrupted by a hand seizing his jaw.

“Quiet now, Dark Eyes. Don’t make me tell you again,” whispers the Tyroshi, his grip on Jon’s jaw growing painful. Jon shuts his eyes in acceptance and after a few moments, he is released. His hands turn into fists on his thighs, but aside from that, he doesn’t resist. Aleqi would be pleased.

He makes to stand and grabs his braies, when he hears the man’s voice again. 

“Naked.”

Jon swallows his pride and leaves the room. 

Naked.

*

He has never visited the Master’s chambers. This worries him. This place is too personal, it can’t mean anything good. He can’t stop pacing and touching every surface in the room. It is full of fineries, costly fabrics, golden ornaments and all kinds of knick knacks. His hands grab the golden miniature of a pyramid and he thinks about smashing it into the Master’s temple. He pictures the man’s body on the ground, a sliver of blood running down his temple, making a dark red pool on the marble floor.

“Remember, running slave in Tyrosh is like rat in box.” Aleqi told him on his first day here ”You’ll get caught before you out of your Master’s door. They know you’re slave from the way you walk, your face, your eyes. A free man in Tyrosh can’t wait to find a runaway slave. You know what they do to little Westerosi bed slaves like you, when they run? They cut off your cock and one foot, as law says, and they sell those. Runaway Westerosi cock brings luck. Then, if your Master is still alive, they take you back. Then your Master decides if he wants to keep a maimed slave. If you lucky, he will. He takes your tongue and keeps you leashed until you forget you’re not dog. If you’re not lucky, he sells the rest of your body to cheapest pleasure houses in the city, down by the docks. Twenty slaves in a room fucked day and night and never let out. I take you to one one day.”

She never did though Jon doubts she’d lied, or exaggerated. Even if he were willing to risk it, there are four guards at each door, both inside and outside, and two at each non barred window. He’s unarmed, as is Sosruqo, always. He can’t steal a weapon from him and threaten him. And when guards are not there he’s usually locked in. Lately he’s been free to wander the house, but such freedom is an illusion. There’s no way out, not without facing at least four guards at one. And even if he manages to take them out, he’s still clearly not a Tyroshi citizen. Men here don’t go around in heavy clothes and hoods, it’s too hot for that. He’d be noticed. A slave walking alone in this district can’t be something usual.

The door behind him suddenly opens. Jon sets the small object back on the glass table and turns to face the man. He doesn’t seem angry. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

“Kneel, pet,” orders the man, pointing at a spot at the foot of his king sized bed. Jon obeys, forcing his breathing to even out.

“No, face the bed, pet.”

His heart in his throat, he obediently turns. The Tyroshi slowly approaches him and finally sits on the edge of the bed, so that Jon is kneeling between his legs.

“Master, I’d like to explain myself.”

“So you can lie to me again, pet? I think not,” replies the man. Jon’s eyes are on his chest. He can’t look at his face, and he can’t look at his groin. 

“You said many things today, more words than I’ve ever heard out of your mouth. It was not uninteresting. I’ve learned a lot, pet. Thank you.”

“Master-“ tries Jon for the last time but a harsh slap hits his mouth.

“Now I’d like to hear some quiet from you again. You’re way too talkative today. Do not interrupt me again. Is that understood, pet? Just nod if it is”, asks the Master. Jon nods once, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

“You thought you could be a good little hunter again, to please me more. Is that the reason, pet?”

Jon decides he’s waiting for a vocal answer. He opens his mouth, but gets interrupted again. “I’d be very careful with my words, if I were you, pet. If you lie to me again, I’m going to make you regret it for a very long time,” warns the man, looking at him with knowing eyes.

Jon swallows. He knows he can’t lie anymore. 

“I was doing it for the boys, Master.”

“Now, there’s some truth out of you, my sweet pet. You chose well. Explain, now.”

“They’re starved, Master. I just thought I could get some food for them, that’s all. Since you’re always feeding me yourself I can never snatch anything for them,” he confesses.

“I wasn’t trying to run, I swear, Master,” he adds at last, hoping that will make up for it.

He shuts up, fearing he can mess it up more if he continues.

“You were trying to help them”, states the man, somber.

“Yes, Master.”

Maybe it won’t be that bad. Maybe he’ll just give him a trashing and that will be it.

“Who do you belong to, pet?”

Jon narrows his eyes, but he knows he has to answer.

“You, Master.”

“Exactly, I’m your master. I find new slaves can sometimes get confused, as to whom their master is. Say it, pet. Who am I?”

“Master,” mutters Jon, hoping this will end soon.

“No, no, pet. All of it. Loud and clear.”

Apparently he’s in for a long day.

“You’re my Master,” finally says Jon.

“That’s right, pet, as I am the boys’ Master. I decide what and when they eat, as I decide what and when you eat. Not you, pet.”

“No, Master, I’m sorry.”

“Did you promise your little friend you would help, pet?” asks Sosruqo, and though Jon doesn’t answer, he remembers telling Mazin he’d think of something.

“You promised him something that wasn’t yours to give,” goes on Sosruqo.

Jon shuts his eyes for a moment, guilt tearing at his guts. He has to fix this.

“It wasn’t the boy’s fault, Master. It was my idea-“

“Tsk tsk tsk. No, pet, it’s not your fault.”

Jon furrows his eyebrows, confused. “But, Master, it was my idea…”

“You’re wrong pet. You don’t get ideas. You’re a slave.”

Jon is quiet, not knowing what to say to that.

“It was just your stupidity, pet. It’s no fault of yours. A slave like you has no ideas, no opinions. You just stumbled over a stupid thought. You can’t really plan anything, pet. Not with that stupid pretty little head of yours, right, pet?”

Jon knows a rhetoric question when he hears it, just as he knows a trap when he sees it. He was never good at self-preservation.

“Right, pet?”

“Yes, Master,” he says quietly.

“No need to be ashamed. It’s not your fault you’re stupid. It’s alright, because you’re so pretty. Don’t you agree, pet?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. Now, about the boys. You know why I can’t feed them as I feed you, don’t you, pet?”

Of course Jon does. He’s deduced it. He has to keep them from growing too fast – he sells them to sick bastards who want little children. He can’t have them growing tall and strong. Jon feels a rage he hasn’t felt since he first came to Tyrosh and he looks up at the Tyrosgu with challenge and disgust. Immediately the man’s slap hits his cheek and the angle of his mouth with a strength that almost turns Jon’s head.

“You don’t look at me like that, _Laehossa zōbri_. Look down,” orders the man and Jon obeys, hating himself for it. “Now look up again, and you better have another face, pet.”

Jon knows what he means. He’s supposed to look at him with begging eyes, like a dog, waiting for a morsel. Jon swallows and slowly he raises his face, furrows his brows and tries to look innocuous.

“Good pet,” cooes Sosruqo and runs his hand through Jon’s curls. Jon’s eyes stay on him as he lets him break him and rebuild him. How will he ever get out of this place? And what will be left of him, if he ever does? And yet, isn’t he already a broken man? 

“I don’t want you thinking of the boys anymore,” the man says with worry in his voice. “It confuses that pretty little head of yours. You should only think of me, not those children. You can’t help them.” 

All those children, burnt. And he couldn’t help them either. He can almost hear the cries for help all around him, and he can still smell the burnt flesh.

He tries to focus on what the man is saying to him.

Sosruqo puts a curl behind his ear as he speaks. “You’re not smart enough, my pretty pet. Think about it. Here you are, untied, free to enter every room you want, unleashed. Why do you think that is, pet?” This time the man doesn’t give Jon time to answer. “It’s because I know you could never come up with an escape plan, pet. You’ve had every chance to run, but you never even tried, my sweet pet. You’re just too slow, too stupid to even help yourself. Isn’t that right, pet?”

Jon starts shaking, battling his will to lash out at the man. He forces himself to swallow down each diminishing word and he tries not to give weight to them. 

Yet they seep into his very soul, crushing him.

What is the man doing to him? Why does he feel so shaken by this? He’s had worse insults thrown at him. And yet it sounds like such a familiar thought to him. 

“Yes, Master.” He doesn’t fail to answer.

“Yes, pet. Say that.”

Jon’s eyes beg his Master not to make him say it. His Master remains unmoving, but his eyes seem loving, sad, the way his father’s used to be whenever he used to discipline Jon. His father never let himself be softened by his son’s begging, either. There was no getting out of a punishment.

“I’m too stupid to even help myself, Master.”

“Yes, you are, pet. But it’s alright for you to be stupid, because you’re so pretty. You don’t need to be smart.”

“Yes, Master.”

Yes, he’d been so stupid. To think he could temper Daenerys’ anger. To think her need for power would be sated once Cersei was dead. How could he not have seen what she had become? After losing Missandei and her two dragons, she had been on the brink of madness, and he had not managed to see that. She wanted everything, including him, and if he’d just been smart enough he would have used that. If he’d just given her himself, truly and fully as she so desired, she would not have felt so alone and maybe, just maybe, thousands of people would have been spared their lives.

Sosruqo’s voice infiltrates his train of thoughts and Jon focuses on him.

“Say that, pet.”

“It’s alright for me to be stupid, because I’m so pretty. I don’t need to be smart.” His eyes tear up, but Jon blinks away the tears. His Master doesn’t fail to notice.

“Shush now. No need to be sad, now, pet. I’ll take care of you, as I take care of all my boys. You remain my favourite, though. Why do you think I spend every night with you?”

He had been Daenerys’ favourite too. And, once Sam had revealed the truth about his birth to him, he’d turned his back on her, awakening the dragon inside. He remembers her glacial eyes, when he’d refused her in front of the fire. Her emotionless voice had worried him, but he ignored it, as he’d ignored all the other signs.

“What are you thinking of, pet?” Sosruqo’s voice interrupts his thoughts once again, and Jon blinks several times, trying to clear his head.

He doesn’t answer the man. He truly feels confused. His Master seems to take pity on him and he stands, towering over Jon. He takes his chin and Jon’s face raises. He searches his Master’s face. “I know it’s not your fault what you did, but you did think you could outsmart me, and that’s a dangerous thought for a slave. So I have to punish you, pet. You will spend the day here in repentance. You’re not to move for any reason at all.” The Master goes and grabs something from his desk, and comes back with a small wooden ruler. He holds it at the height of Jon’s mouth. “Open up,” he orders. Jon does not even think before obeying, and lets the man put the stick between his lips. “Close.”

He stares at the warm red wall behind the bed, the thin ruler held in his mouth. Jon feels numb, strangely detached from his body. He’s not angry anymore. He just wishes he could be somewhere else. Outside, in the snow, because inside he’s burning up. So much that he thinks he might have come down with a fever.

“You’re not to drop it. I want you to think about what we discussed and focus on pleasing me. And I want you to hold that in your mouth, pet. Do not disappoint me. When I come back for dinner we will talk about your punishment.”

Jon does not move and his Master leaves him alone in his new hell.


	9. How could anything bad ever happen to you?

Sansa sets down the needle at the knock. She shuts her bloodshot eyes for a moment and sighs, before resignedly giving permission to enter. She doesn’t turn to the door.

“Your Grace,” comes Lord Royce’s voice from behind her. 

“My Lord,” she greets him, her voice sounding distant even to herself.

Lord Royce joins her near the fireplace and after a long moment where she pretends to have forgotten about his presence, he sits on the chair in front of her with a grievous frown on his already naturally serious face.

“Maester Wolkan told me you’d be here, Your Grace,” he says. 

Sansa does not respond, choosing to stare at the wolf she’s been sewing on the grey handkerchief. It’s a white wolf.

As soon as she’d received Lord Tyrion’s raven, Sansa barricaded herself in Jon’s chambers, feeling the need to be close to him in some way. In that room remained only fleeting memories of Jon, those evenings spent talking about the war to come or reminiscing the past. She sat on Jon’s bed and read Tyrion’s words several times, each time she slipped deeper and deeper into despair. Bran not only seemed unable to help, but also not worried or concerned enough to write to her himself. The only relief was that her younger brother seemed certain that Jon lived, wherever he was. 

“We have been worried for you, Your Grace,” continues Lord Royce, pulling her away from her thoughts. “You haven’t left this room for two days.”

“I am well, My Lord. I just needed time to think,” she replies with a forced smile after taking a few moments to gather herself.

“You look like you haven’t slept much, My Queen, If I may be so bold,” Lord Royce tells her, laying his hand over hers in a fatherly way.

Sansa looks at their joined hands for a few seconds before retracting hers.

“I thank you for your concern, My Lord, but it’s unwarranted. I am fine, as I told you,” she replies coldly, avoiding his gaze.

“I’ve heard of King Bran’s reply to your message, Your Grace.”

Tyrion’s reply, he means. Bran hadn’t cared enough to write so much as a word to her.

“You thought he would know more, Your Grace,” hazards Lord Royce.

Of course she had. She’d counted on Bran for this, at least. She had given up on the idea of having her little brother truly back long ago now, but at least she had expected him to ease her worries. She thought he would be able to tell her Jon’s whereabouts. As she waited for Bran’s reply, she’d pictured a whole army joined to rescue Jon from whatever chains kept him.

She’d never learn to lower her expectations from people.

“Yes, Lord Royce,” she answers at last with a sigh. “I expected Bran to be aware of Jon’s whereabouts. His powers hadn’t ever failed him so far. It is not the case anymore.”

“I am sure the King’s Small Council will come up with a plan, Your Grace.”

Who, the people who had been so quick to agree Jon deserved to spend the rest of his time at the Wall? If that was the strength of their loyalty then, Sansa doesn’t want to imagine how much effort they will put into finding him now. 

“In all honesty, I do not have that much faith in them, My Lord,” she tells him, because she’s tired of men, of their carelessness, of their confidence. How patronizing they are, daring to tell her not to worry, because she’s a woman, and her worries are too much for her.

“Even so,” continues Lord Royce, her annoyed thoughts unheard, “I am certain, wherever he is, Lord Snow knows how to take care of himself. He is well, Your Grace, I have no doubts about that.”

“And how would you know that, My Lord?” she asks, finally meeting his gaze, a more venomous retort on the tip of her tongue. 

_ Now everybody is the damned Three-Eyed-Raven. _

“Oh, My Queen, I do not know of course. I only meant, he’s a strong man, and wherever he went, he’s more than capable of defending himself,” replies quickly the older man, looking slightly flushed.

Sansa studies him for a long moment.

“Are you implying Jon fled willingly?” she asks sullenly, not even caring about adding the honorific.

“Well,” hesitates Lord Royce, “he had reason to feel his sentence was unjust. He did murder a tyrant.”

“Yes, he did,” says Sansa, raising her brows, daring him to insult Jon’s honor in front of her.

“I only mean to ease your worries, Your Grace. I know you care deeply for your brother.”

She can’t stand to hear that word. She doesn’t know what Jon means to her anymore, but she hasn’t been able to call him brother since the day they parted ways. She knows she cannot dare voice her displeasure at that word. To most of the world, they are still brother and sister. As she knows they should be to her.

“You are telling me,” she begins after an annoyed sigh, “that you believe Jon Snow, your former King, a King you yourself chose to follow, who carries Ned Stark’s blood in his veins, fled his home, running from a sentence given to him by the King of The Six Kingdoms.”

She raises her chin and takes a long breath before continuing.

“You are not only insulting Jon, but also House Stark, and therefore me, My Lord. That does not ease my worries, I assure you,” she tells him, raising her chin and struggling to keep her voice from trembling.

The fire crackles loudly, the flames playing light games on their serious faces and Sansa can see the man’s face waver at her hard words.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” he offers after a moment, bowing his head briefly. “I have nothing but respect for you and your noble House. As I did for your Lord Father. I know Lord Snow to be an honorable and honest man. But if I may, and I beg you to forgive me for this, many believe he decided to flee. He left his post at the Wall once already, in mysterious circumstances. And he bent the knee to a foreign Queen. Many believe his loyalties to be… easily swayed. You have showed concern at his choice to bend the knee to the Dragon Queen yourself. Now, if you tell me he could not have fled, I will trust your word, of course, and shut down anybody who might claim the contrary. But I am afraid people will still wonder.”

Sansa has heard the rumours, though she wouldn’t have expected one of her closest advisors to believe them. Maybe she’s still the naive girl she believed she had left behind.

“The circumstances of Jon leaving the Wall are not mysterious, Lord Royce,” she counters glacially. “Those rumours are true. He was murdered by his men, he bears the scars to this day. He was brought back by the Red Woman, under the eyes of several witnesses, two of whom live and can confirm what they saw. I only wonder how, after everything we have seen, after you saw thousands of dead men raising from the snow, after witnessing the powers of the Red Woman during the Battle of Winterfell, you still struggle to believe that she could have brought a person back to life.” 

She pauses for a moment, where she swallows, tears of rage threatening to come out of her eyes. Lord Royce stares at her with guilty eyes. Good, let him finally know what _ she _ thinks of men and ‘loyalty’.

“Jon’s Watch ended when his men betrayed and butchered him. That is why he left his post, and he never would have if that hadn’t happened. Just as he would never hide from his sentence, however unjust. And unjust it was.”

“Of course it was, Your Grace.”

“I was not finished,” she says, her fear, her loneliness, her sleepless night finally pouring as venom in her voice. “You say his loyalties are easily swayed. But you do not realize the price he paid for his loyalty, not to the North, but to the realms of Men. That is how much the Night’s Watch vows matter to him, so much that he stabbed the woman he fell in love with to stop her from killing another person, another child,” she tells him, her heart constricting painfully at having to admit out loud Jon truly loved the Targaryen queen. 

“Name me another man who would have sacrificed his own soul for the good of the Realm, with no wish for a crown or power,” she continues in a harsh voice. “I know what honor means to Jon Snow. He is my Father’s son in every way, and there is no one in this world that I know to be more honorable that him. That is why people followed him, that is why you crowned him King. And to know people so easily forget what kind of man they chose to follow, makes me doubt  _ their  _ honor, more than his. Wherever he is, Jon hates himself for killing the queen he believed in, and he hates himself even more for not saving the population of King’s Landing. But he saved _ us _ , by killing her. Do not forget. He stopped her before she could come and do the same to us, and burnt we would have, My Lord. Jon’s loyalty is to us, as it always was. My own misgivings over his choices are a private matter between him and me. As his family, I have the right to voice out my opinion to him, but I never doubted his honor or his loyalty. He might have misjudged Daenerys,” she adds bitterly, “but I seem to remember the whole North cheering her after the Long Night.”

“So do not come here, in his chambers, and tell me Jon is safe and well, enjoying his life as a free man on some island in the Sunset Sea,” she accuses him shaking her head, before her voice turns to a whisper. “He did not run, he would never forgive himself for hiding from the King’s Law. No, something happened. Someone took him, Lord Royce. And I will not trust my brother’s Small Council with Jon’s safety. For all I know, they believe Jon to be happily gallivanting in the Summer Islands,” she scoffs. “How seriously will they look for him if they agree with the many you mentioned to me? No, they do not know him, but I do. And I will not forsake him.”

“The North,” she reinforces, raising her voice “will not forsake him.”

Lord Royce stares at her pensively as she calms herself down, finally having let out all of her bitterness. She suddenly feels she can breathe more easily. She returns his stare unflinchingly.

At last, the man nods.

“Where do we begin then, My Queen?” he asks and she has a fleeting wish to smile at him for accepting what she told him with no argument. She doesn’t though. She doesn’t need his approval, she reminds herself. This is her castle, and he her subject. It would not do for him to get the idea that she needs him passing judgement to believe in herself.

_ If I don’t believe in my own words, no man of mine will. _

She breathes heavily and squares her shoulders. She stands and goes to the table, where the map Jon used to make his battle plans is still spread out. Lord Royce raises and follows her.

“I have my suspects,” she begins with a stronger voice. “You heard Yara Greyjoy in the Dragon’s Pit. She wanted Jon dead more than anyone else, except maybe Grey Worm. The Ironborn are a more deceitful people than the Unsullied, I would say. The Ironborn also know how to take over a ship in the middle of the sea. She’d be my first guess, but I can’t be sure. And then there are the Dothraki, who are not a reasonable people, they have no understanding of our laws. Without Daenerys, they are uncontrollable.”

“There is no way he’s in the North, dead or alive. Tormund has been scouting for weeks, and Ghost is with him. He’d be able to smell Jon. I will write to Tyrion and ask to send a scouting party in the South, just to be sure. But I don’t expect him to find anything there. I don’t think he’s in the mainland.”

Sansa shuts her eyes for a moment and massages her eyelids, suddenly hit by her tiredness. When images of Jon being tortured in a dark cell cloud her mind’s eye though, she opens them again. She points a finger to Essos, the tip falling on one of the Free Cities.

“I want you to send a search party to Essos. Braavos, Pentos, the Free Cities. I don’t care if you have to sail to Naath. Ask questions, spread the word, offer a ransom. Find him. If the Dothraki took him, he might be their slave. Or they might have sold him already,” she says, repressing a shudder at either possibility.

She notices his frowning.

“What is it?” she asks, gesturing for him to speak.

He seems to hesitate under her stare.

Sansa raises an eyebrow.

“Your Grace, I want to be sure that you understand… if we were to find him,” he begins, visibly struggling with his words. “If he turns out to be free and in perfect health... If there is even a small chance that he might have escaped of his own volition… honor compels you to… exact punishment. And the punishment for running from one’s sentence… is death,” he says at last, barely meeting her eyes.

Sansa stares at him darkly for a long time, suddenly feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. She could never do that, she knows. She’d help him escape herself. Maybe she’d flee with him, she thinks, a sad smile threatening its way onto her face. They’d live out their lives on a warm beach, living off the land, with no one to try and hurt them. There’d be no dragons, nor wolves, no banners. Only them and the warm sun. 

She’s still a little bird, she supposes bitterly.

She shakes her silly thoughts away and faces her bannerman.

“Find him,” she orders, not an inflection in her steady voice.

Lord Royce sends her a look of concern but, after only a moment, nods solemnly and turns to leave her.

“Ah, My Lord,” she calls him back, “arrange a travelling party for me. I want to speak to the Queen of the Iron Islands. In person.”

*

Jon’s knees stop aching at some point. He judges it’s because circulation has finally stopped.

He’s lost track of how long he’s been kneeling here. He only knows the room has turned dark now that the sun has set.

He feels the wooden stick with his teeth to remind himself this is real. Although he’s been left alone for hours and hours, Jon hasn’t moved an inch, lost in his thoughts.

First he had been inexplicably confused. Sosruqo’s words had sent him to a dark place where Jon found no contact with this world. Only Sosruqo’s voice was there, repeating time after time how stupid he had been, and how there is no way out for him, or Mazin, or Aleqi. Jon knows the words by heart now.

For an infinite amount of time, he’s stared numbly at the bed in front of his face, trying to remove himself, to reach a place in his mind where chaos would not rule.

He finds safe haven in his memories.

With his mind he rides to Winterfell and finds solace in his Father’s strong arms. He remembers his time sparring with Robb, laughing at his brother’s offended face everytime Jon sent him straight to the ground.

With seemingly no control of where his mind went, Jon has walked through all of Winterfell and finally comes to a stop at Sansa’s old door, the one she slept in when she was just little girl. When he goes in she’s sewing something on a handkerchief. It’s not for him. It never is for him, usually for Robb, or Theon, or her Father. He’d never deserved such a gift from her.

“Can you forgive me?” she asked him that day on the docks. She’d hurt him, yes, but he knew her so well. He knew what she’d been through, how hard it was for her to trust anybody. He knew she meant not to hurt him, but to push him. If anyone had to be on that horrible throne, she wanted him sitting there. She trusted him enough to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and Jon knows what trusting him cost her. She was trying to protect the North and their family in the only way that made sense to her. She let him down by not keeping her word, but he let her down by choosing Daenerys. 

In the end, as ash fell from the sky like snow, for him the only good choice became clear. At heart he was still Ned Stark’s son. He chose the people. He chose justice. He chose Sansa too, in a way, when he killed Dany. It had been too late, though. And he’d realized, that choice had been in front of him since he brought Daenerys to Winterfell. What kind of man cannot choose between two women? He had to at some point. Was it the same for Rhaegar? Was it a difficult choice for him? He left a wife and children to be with his mother, knowing he was going against all the rules. Did he regret it in the end?

“Sooner or later, in every man’s life, there comes a day when it is not easy! A day when he must choose,” had told him Maester Aemon, when he was faced with the choice of joining Robb in his southern war, or stay with the Watch. He’d thought that would be the hardest choice he’d ever have to make. 

“Can you forgive me?” she asked him, tears in her eyes. She should have asked if he could forgive himself. For hurting her, for not listening to her, for keeping her at distance. For hurting Daenerys too. For not seeing her sooner. For not stopping her. Had the monster already been there?

It had to be. Sansa had seen it. He’d blamed it on her trust issues, on her being too difficult. And she’d been right all along. And yet on that last day, she showed no signs of anger for him. She was sorry for him, she hated to see him broken. She had hugged him as if she’d wanted to keep him with her, to put the pieces back together herself.

_ At least she can’t see me now. _

He has long stopped wondering if this, his becoming a slave, is enough punishment for all of his deeds. Nobody is coming for him. There is only survival now.

Punishment finally comes in the form of steps nearing the door of the Master’s Chambers.

Jon breathes harshly through his nose, tightening his lips around the stick and shutting his eyes for a steadying moment. He makes fists on his thighs.

The door barges open behind Jon and shuts. 

A whimper.

_ No. _

Before he can think it through, Jon stands on instinct, the stick falling from his mouth and dropping to the marble floor, and he puts himself between Aleqi and the guard, Torrjan, catching the cord of the whip mid-lash around his raised arm. An animal rush of anger makes him bare his teeth at the guard. 

Torrjan tries to retract his whip, no doubt to lash at either him or Aleqi, but the leather is twined around Jon’s forearm and he won’t let go. He won’t add this to the list of times when he stood by and let an innocent suffer. A staring contest begins between Jon and the guard, only interrupted by Sosruqo, who takes a step closer to Jon.

"Don't, pet," he bids, more calmly than Jon would have expected. "You're making it worse for the both of you."

Blood pulses noisily in Jon's ears, and he hasn't felt this much like himself in forever. He doesn't look away from the guard's angry eyes.

"I didn't order you to move, pet" continues Sosruqo, his voice like a calm wave of reason slowly infiltrating Jon's head. "This is your punishment. It's going to happen no matter what you do."

_ No, I won't let you do this. _

Jon's body shakes in front of Aleqi's quiet, cowering form.

"Let me call the other guards," interjects Torrjan, directed at the Tyroshi Master.

"No need for that. There is a lesson to be learnt here. He will obey."

_ Appease him _ , a voice whispers him.  _ You know what he wants. Give it to him _ .

Jon bites his lips, hesitating. He eyes sideways, air coming out of him in short breaths. Nobody speaks, they're waiting for his next move.

Jon swallows painfully, though his mouth is dry.

Finally he lowers his arm, letting the whip slide free, until it drops to the floor. Torrjan eyes Sosruqo, waiting for instructions.

Suddenly all the soreness of a day spent on the stone cold floor sips into his bones and his trembling limbs fold over themselves. Jon slides gracefully to his knees again, facing the Master. 

"I know I have wronged you, Master," he states with a swallow. "Please leave her out of this. Punish  _ me _ , Master. Teach  _ me _ . Teach me how to be better."

Sosruqo stares at him pensively.

"But this is your punishment, my stupid pet." he replies with amusement. "You know I consider her responsible for your failings. When you fail, she fails as well. This way you both get disciplined."

"She taught me well, Master. She has no fault here, only me. I challenged you, not because I wasn't taught not to, but in spite of it," Jon tells him, his heart almost beating its way out of its chest. 

He crawls closer to the man and grip his robes within his hands. He looks up at the Tyroshi.

"I need you to teach me, not her. Leave her out of this and I will be yours. Show me how to be yours. How to be whatever you want me to be."

Sosruqo studies him through hooded eyes. He can practically feel Aleqi's green irises boring into the back of his head. She hasn't made a sound except for her scared gasps.

Jon thinks it's time he stood up for her. No matter what it does to him.

"I can be whatever you want me to be, Master." he whispers, feeling short of breath. "Just show me how you want me."

There is a telling bulge under the man's robes. Jon doesn't let go of him.

“I think you’re biting off more than you can chew, pet,” utters Sosruqo with a hoarse voice.

_ You’re probably right. _

“Then I’ll just swallow it whole, Master,” replies Jon stubbornly, causing the Tyroshi to laugh out loud.

After a sigh, he shakes his head with a smirk.

“Very well. Aleqi, I daresay you owe him one. Go, you’ll come back later to see to him,” Sosruqo orders. Jon sighs in relief, letting his hands drop back down.

Aleqi’s weightless steps seem to hesitate for a moment. And then she leaves the Master’s Chambers, unharmed.

Now he’s gotten what he wanted, dread can finally take over him.

*

In the end Torrjan does call the other guards. It's not to hold him still or to restrain him. There are ropes for that.

He has been made to kneel on the Master bed, his shoulder and face pressed down against the sheets. One rope was looped around his upper chest and tied under the bed. His knees were spread in what can only resemble the pose of a frog, and each wrist tied to a knees. There is no possible way for Jon to move or somehow control anything that is done to him, this way. And his inner thighs muscles burn like hell.

The moment Jon realized the hands on his buttocks were not Sosruqo’s an inexplicable surge of betrayal makes him twist in his bonds. He tried to turn and see who’s behind him but his Master’s hands were right there on his head, patiently leading him to rest it on the sheets. 

“You asked for this, remember?” whispered Sosruqo as the first guard pressed into him with so much as some spit on two fingers to prepare him. Jon reminds himself it doesn’t really matter who does it, he’s nothing more than an object to any of them. This is not what he’d expected. It’s not Sosruqo’s style, he prefers to be personally involved in Jon’s degradation. But maybe this is good in a way. It’ll avoid any sort of deluded attachment to this man.

To the guards, he is no more than a hole. They don’t even talk to him, they just laugh at him, telling each other vile and banal jokes about him and how tight and warm he is. And wet, oh, they love that. After the third man in a row orgasms inside him, there’s no wonder.

He lets with a pained moan as someone particularly large breaches him.

This is not good at all, this just makes him wish to go back to Sosruqo, in the end. At least that’s just one cock. 

Jon’s long given up trying to keep count of how many men have brutalized him, or even figuring out what any of them have done to earn a place at his back. The last one is angry. He thrusts into him with so much fury that Jon’s body lifts at the onslaught. He proceeds to hammer into Jon’s hole at a rabbit-fast pace, and Jon is already so sore he yelps and actually tries to get away from this one, shaking his head, too tired to beg them to stop. Pain seeps into his every muscle until he feels almost numb. Will they continue once he loses consciousness? He can feel it coming, and it’s a relief. He looks outside the window into the starry night. His vision blurs and he mumbles something.

“You don’t say no, pet. No is a bad word,” whispers Sosruqo into his ear.

Fingers brush through his hair.

“There is power in you, you resist it. That’s your mistake.”

Melisandre sits on his lap and makes to kiss him.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers trying to step away.

“We should,” whispers back Ygritte, before stealing his kiss. He shuts his eyes and hugs her tightly, his hands caressing her naked back.

When he pulls back, he lays his forehead against hers and smiles happily. He threads her auburn hair between his callous fingers.

“How could anything bad ever happen to you?” Sansa whispers smiling sweetly at him. She holds his face in her hands. He has no answer for her, only swallows in sorrow. 

“You will be protected,” she tells him, fully convinced. 

With curious eyes, she traces his lips with her fingers.

“Take a sip,” whispers another voice, holding a cup to his dry lips. Jon wakes up with a panicked jump and blinks sleep from his eyes. Aleqi’s eyes watch him with no expression, just an intensity that he hadn’t expected.

Jon tries to push himself up but his body rebels against him. He tries to catch his breath and goes back to stillness.

"Drink now. It's for pain," says the Myrwoman. Jon accepts the offered drink and takes a sip. It's poppy milk. Some of it spills and wets his cheek and the sheets under it. Exhausted, Jon lets his head fall back on the bed.

Blood is still coming back to his hands, they must have just released him. His wrists are red and there is dried blood where the rope cut the skin.

Aleqi’s hands help him straighten his legs, his joints screaming at the pain of being forced into a bent position for who knows how long.

Once he’s laid more comfortably on his front, Aleqi passes a wet linen over his buttocks, and thighs, cleaning away the residuals of what was done to him as well as she can without moving him. Finally, she pulls a sheet over him, covering his lower half.

She comes back around the bed to face him. She looks at him with a slightly worried frown. It’s the first time Jon has seen her worried, as this all seems to be normal to her, with the life she’s had. Maybe it’s the poppy taking effect already.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispers after a while. She pulls back a black curl from where it slipped over his cheek. She tucks it behind his ear.

“I should have done it sooner,” he answers, drowse in his voice.

“You need to be smarter,” she quips back with a small scowl.

“Yeah, you’re always telling me that,” he sighs shutting his eyes.

“This is the first I’ve said that to you.”

Sleep takes him before he can answer her.

*

Two hands grab his arms and try to move him. No, they’re trying to rouse him. His mind begs them to just let him rest. 

_ Just let me sleep. _

He doesn’t want to open his eyes and be back in this hell. He’s pulled against someone’s chest, and he moans in protest, as his sore muscles are made to move.

“Shush, go back to sleep.”

He blinks his eyes open. His Master is in bed with him and keeps him tucked against him. Jon tenses immediately.

“Relax, we’re not doing anything,” Sosruqo says, getting comfortable against the cushions.

Jon struggles to stay awake and keep track of the man’s movements.

“Don’t look at me like that, pet. I assure you, I wasn’t happy to share you either.”

Jon just stares at him tiredly. If he had the strength to, he would move away, go to sleep on the edge of the bed. Except, he kind of sold his soul today. He’s not supposed to resist him.

“It had to be done,” Sosruqo continues, his voice barely a whisper. “I won’t be able to keep you to myself, either way. That’s not what I bought you for.”

“I liked the fire I saw in you today, pet. When you stopped Torrjan I could swear your eyes almost turned red for a moment.”

Is that what happened? Did he go into Ghost for a moment? Or was it the other way around?

Jon is too exhausted to worry about any of it.

“And then, you just calmed yourself, and offered yourself to me. Like a tamed beast. My dangerous, stupid, reckless, beautiful beast,” says Sosruqo, fondly stroking Jon’s hair.

“I think I’ve found the right name for you,” whispers the man into the otherwise quiet room.

Jon doesn’t care anymore. He turns his head away, his eyelids drooping. The wood in the hearth has burnt out, leaving the room cold and dark. Smoke twirls slowly into the air.

He looks out at the starry night, wishing he could just fly out of the window.

The only unbarred and unguarded window of the house.

When he finally falls asleep, there’s a flying dragon setting the stars aflame, until smoke covers the sky.

*

Sansa’s steps echo in the deserted crypt. She hasn’t come down here since the day of the battle. The men have been restoring and rebuilding what could be salvaged. It doesn’t look nearly the same. Some of the statues had to be thrown away, included her grandfather’s, Rickard Stark. 

Part of the ceiling has collapsed, and the men have built a wooden barrier of sort where it’s not safe to walk.

It doesn’t matter, she’s only here to say goodbye to her father. 

Ned Stark’s tomb has been partly damaged, but his bones had never been returned to Winterfell. It was only by sheer force of will and stubbornness she convinced Jon not to exhume and burn the bodies of the crypts too after the battle. Not all the corpses had managed to break through the stone, like her aunt Lyanna.

Jon had told her it was a risk for the generations to come. There was no way to know whether another Long Night would ever return. Sansa refused to see the bones of her ancestors burnt, faceless and unrecognizable. Sansa thinks the only reason Jon finally agreed was because he couldn’t stand the thought of his own mother being exhumed and taken away from her place in the crypts. Her statue had been specifically requested all those years ago by Father, even when only Kings and Lords of Winterfell typically ever earned one in the Winterfell Crypts.

Rickon was buried there as well, though his body had come back and exhumed itself from his tomb during the battle and hadn't ever been found in the pile of corpses that had fought their ways out of the crypts. Neither she nor Jon had said a word on the matter, not wanting to bring out anew the pain of their youngest brother's death. Sansa can only be grateful her Lady Mother's and Robb's bones had never been returned to them as well as her Father's. Her Mother would surely have hunted Jon throughout the castle to skin him alive.

Sansa feels a shudder run through her spine, both at the cold and at the memory of that terrifying night. Nonetheless, she doesn't run. This is her home, and this is where she'll rest herself one day. She hopes she'll have the rest of her family here with her when that happens.

She finally reaches her Father's empty tomb. She lights a candle and slowly turns to look up at him. She's never been one to stand here and speak to the dead, hoping they'll hear her. Jon used to come here a lot though. She'd find him standing still, his eyes still on Father's sculpted face. Who knows what he was thinking. Was he praying? Did he ask for advice? Did he ever get any?

"You lied to all of us," are her first words to her Father. She shakes her head at him. "We thought you were the most honest person who ever existed, and you lied for almost twenty years. To everyone. So many things would be different now if you hadn't."

Had Jon been angry at him? He should have. But that's never been Jon. Well, she can be angry enough for the both of them. 

"You raised him as a bastard to keep him alive, but never thought what that would do to him. How he would see himself. You took away his name, his heritage, and by not telling Mother, you took that love away from him as well. You made him believe he was worth less than any of us. You made me believe he wasn't worth a thing," she spits with angry tears fighting their way out of her eyes.

She knows it's unfair of her to blame anybody but herself for that, but she doesn't care. Now that she's started, all of her pent up feelings and fears get out and she can't pull them back.

"It took me a long time to find him. And even then, the way I had treated him in the past always kept us apart. I never even told im I loved him. I don't even know if he knows that…" her voice breaks as she remembers all the time they fought and their last moment together.

"Was it worth it? Was that really the only way of keeping him alive? No, you could have sent him away, hidden him the way Daenerys and her brother were. But you wanted him here. You couldn't bear to have him far away, the last reminder of your sister. But he needed so much more than to survive."

She takes a calming breath.

"I know you cared for him. I know you made a promise. I'm going to uphold that promise, because you're not here anymore. I am going to find him, and I am going to bring him home. And then, I will make sure he’s happy, as well as alive," she says, drying her tears, her words sounding so hollow to herself.

After a few moments to gather herself she turns away, but stops and walks back, leaving her Father’s statue to her back, as she delves deeper into the crypt. Finally she reaches another statue. Aunt Lyanna stands there unmoving, her sweet features bringing other tears to Sansa’s eyes. She lights a candle for her father’s sister. For Jon’s mother. 

“Protect him,” she whispers, her prayer echoing in the dimly lit hall.

And then she leaves her ghosts behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get an email notification when I post each new chapter, please subscribe to the story.   
> The Aerosmith said it better: You don't want to miss a thing!


	10. I Need to Know the Name of my Neighbour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. Hope it was worth it, still.

"Sadie, bring me my crown, please," says Sansa, staring at her own reflection in the mirror.

"Right away, Your Grace," answers her handmaid with a small bow. She's a tiny figure, with light brown locks and round hazel eyes. Sansa is quite satisfied with her, as she has turned out to be discreet enough, which is not often the case with young maids.

Her maid's hands carefully lower the silver circle over her cascade of hair and Sansa inhales deeply, steadying herself for the upcoming council. Most of her bannerman have heard she is leaving for the Iron Islands, and she does not need their permission, but she must make ensure they feel consulted. If there is anything she has learnt, keeping the bannermen happy is as exhausting as it is crucial. 

An expected knock comes at the door, and she nods at Sadie, who lets Lord Royce enter her Chambers.

Sansa smiles at him from her place at the mirror and raises to welcome him.

"Your Grace," he greets her with a respectful bow. "You look well-rested."

She is. Her talk with him the night before left her drained but calmer. After her trip to the Crypts she finally fell into a dreamless sleep, which allowed her to wake up feeling stronger and more clear-headed, less bitter, even.

She's not going to let her worries weaken her. She needs to be fierce in her choices.

"Thank you, My Lord. I am," she answers before nodding her leave to her maid.

"Did you want to speak to me before heading to the Great Hall, Lord Royce?

"I did, Your Grace," nods the man before looking down and crossing his hands in front of his stomach, preparing himself for, Sansa knows, what is going to be an attempt at stopping her from leaving. 

Well, she's ready for it.

"I wanted to tell you that you have all of my admiration for wanting to help Lord Snow. I understand your reasons, Your Grace, I do. And I do believe we certainly have to look for him, as he is a member of your House and for all he has done for the North," he asserts, and it sounds rehearsed.

Sansa smiles knowingly at him and nods once, feeling indulgent. She lets him continue.

"In spite of this, Your Grace, I have to bring to you my concerns about the trip you plan on undertaking. It is too risky for you to go yourself, even with a full guard. The Ironborn are a barbaric people, you know that. They are no better than savages, and they might be a threat. Send an emissary, Your Grace, I beg of you," Lord Royce concludes with a sigh, before staring at her in the eyes.

"Lord Royce," she addresses him after a moment of self-gathering, "I hear your concerns and I know you speak truly. I know this can be dangerous, believe me. I wonder, do you recall when Jon announced that he would first leave for Dragonstone?" she asks, raising her eyebrows, the crown heavy on her head.

The Lord of Runestone inhales deeply, clearly aware of where she's going, but dutifully nods.

"Of course, Your Grace, that was as well an hazardous task. Yours is a brave family, that is certain," he concedes and now it's his turn to look indulgent.

"It is not about bravery, though it may seem so. If I remember correctly, when Jon said he planned on meeting Daenerys, I was as against as you were then, and as you are now. I tried to stop him, with the same arguments you're now bringing to me. They are sensible arguments, My Lord. I was afraid for him," she admits with a sad smile, feeling nostalgic as she remembers how it felt to have him here, as frustrating as it was to get along with him. Now she wishes he could still be here, fighting with her. It wouldn't matter, as long as she could still see him and touch him.

She shakes her sadness away, swallowing.

"I will answer to you the same way Jon answered to me. Yara Greyjoy is a queen. Only a queen can convince her to give up, if she has Jon. It has to be me," she states with a smile, looking at him. She sees a bit of pride in his grey eyes.

"Moreover, I have leverage with Yara. Both Jon and I forgave Theon for his crimes, and I welcomed him into Winterfell. I…" she hesitates, her voice wavering with emotion. "I should have fought harder for Jon at the parlay, I should have reminded Yara of what House Stark did for Theon. His death was a hard blow to me and I didn't want to exploit his memory that way, but I should have. Yara owes me, and Jon… because we both… Theon was family to us, even after everything. That means something, doesn't it?"

Lord Royce nods.

"Of course it does, Your Grace. You showed him mercy, and friendship, and it is honourable. It shouldn't be forgotten," he tells her, fondness in his booming voice. "I am just not sure that an Ironborn would respect that. They don't share our values, your Lord Father knew that well, having fought a war against Lord Balon. They are not to be trusted. And if she has indeed attacked Lord Snow, I am afraid it won't be easy to have her surrender him. If she wanted gold, she'd have asked for some ransom. And since she hasn't, she either hasn't had enough fun with him yet and she's waiting until she's bored, he's broken and we've looked hard enough, or…" he stops and seems to be trying to put the pieces together.

"Or?" prompts Sansa.

"Or it's an act of pure vengeance, of principle. And if that's the case the threat of a war wouldn't really stop her. Or she wouldn't have taken him in the first place."

Sansa nods pensively. It's not as if she hasn't ruminated on it long enough to come to a similar conclusion. 

"Either way," goes on Lord Royce seriously "I'm afraid you won't be able to convince her easily. If she's done this, the reminder of her own tortured brother won't mean much to her. What if it's a trap, Your Grace? What if she wants you to go? She's seen how you defended him in King's Landing. She knows you're looking for him."

Sansa sighs in resignation.

"I don't care. I have to go! This is Jon, and I won't sit meekly by as he's tortured, or worse. This is my blood, my family. I won't hide in my castle, not this time. And we don't even know if it was the Ironborn. I cannot go to her with an army and risk insulting her when I have no proof she did anything. I am going on a diplomatic parley, and what we will do is talk. I seriously doubt she wants to start a war. She has what she wanted: she is Queen and the Iron Islands are free, as Daenerys had granted. Would she really endanger her Kingdom to have one man's head? And for Daenerys Targaryen, of all people!" exclaims Sansa, now tired of all these hypothesis. She just wants to go. She just wants to sail and see for herself that he's not there.

"Honestly, Lord Royce," she adds with a sigh. "I don't think she did it. But I have to go, don't you see? Or I will forever wonder. I have to know that I tried, and that I did my best or I will never forgive myself. I have to do something, and when I'll know I've tried every road, and he's still gone, then maybe, I will accept it. But at the moment, I still have hope. I want to bring him home, My Lord. I…"

She chokes on her words She sounds like a child.

_ I am so inadequate.  _

She needs her sister. Arya would just have upped and left, with only her sword and a horse as companions, with no need for a guard to protect her, and no care for their bannermen’s approval. She’d have already been across Essos by now, her only focus on locating Jon and cutting his tormentors’ faces off.

Once again, Sansa is alone, with only herself to believe in. 

She takes a deep, calming breath and stares into Lord Royce’s eyes once more, begging him to understand.

"I have lost half of my family. I will not lose Jon as wel. I owe it to myself, and to my Father, who loved him in a way you can't begin to understand. I owe it to Arya, who's not here and can't look for him herself. And I owe it to the North, which needs him still. And I owe it to Jon, who would do the same for me."

She realizes she has tears in her eyes and she blinks them away. She's showed enough of her feelings to this man. The Lord bites his upper lip, looking uncomfortable for a moment. Then, with a long sigh which makes his chest distend, he inclines his head, finally accepting that she won’t be dissuaded.

“Very well, Your Grace. In that case, your retinue is ready, and we can depart as soon as you’ve spoken to the Lords.”

She’d expected he’d want to join her as well.

“You are not coming, my Lord,” she tells him, with a kind smile.

His eyes widen, his frown turning indignant.

“But, Your Grace, I cannot let you go alone. You will need someone to keep you counsel. I have sworn to remain by your side.”

“That you have, my Lord,” she nods, softening. “even when you and my cousin Robin both named Bran as your King. I was moved that in the end you chose to come to Winterfell, and by my closest advisor. It is a privilege.”

“To be fully honest, Your Grace, I did expect you to accept your brother as your King, thus joining North and South again. I didn’t think I would have the choice to pledge my allegiance to you,” he replies, looking slightly torn. “Of course, the Lord of the Vale must remain my liege Lord, as it has for hundreds of years. But I had also pledged my allegiance to you and the North before the Battle of the Bastards. Therefore, I was conflicted. I thought asking Lord Robin to allow me to keep by your side while my eldest Andar remains in the Vale, in service to House Arryn, would be a good compromise. And a way to maintain ties with the North. He agreed with me.”

“And I am glad for it,” offers Sansa. “I am sorry that I put you in the position of choosing between me and my brother. I understand that you had to follow your Liege Lord. But I was touched that you still chose to come North, and be by my side. I need your counsel. You are a valuable advisor, and I consider you a friend. I don’t have many friends.”

He seems moved by her words and she steps a little bit closer. She takes his hand in hers.

“That is why I need you to stay. I trust you to hold Winterfell for me while I am away. In this case, you’re more valuable to me if you stay and hold my home, than if you were to come with me. Lord Gawen, the late Lord Glover’s eldest son, will accompany me. He knows quite a bit of the Ironborn. He was their prisoner for over a year.”

“But Your Grace,” he starts, looking uncertain, “Your bannermen won’t like that. After all, I am not a Northener. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“They will accept it as my wish, my Lord. I am their Queen, and this is my command.”

He stares at her in mild disapproval. She squeezes his hand tighter, hoping he will give in.

“It…” he starts after a few moments “would be my honour, Queen Sansa.”

She smiles, relieved. She squeezes his hand again in gratitude.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

He simply nods, saying no more.

“Now I only have to convince all of my Lords. As all true Northeners, they are stubborn.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but as all true Northeners, so are you.”

She lets out a small laugh. It’s a small victory, but still a victory.

“We should to the Great Hall. They’re waiting,” she says. He takes a step back, gesturing for her to lead the way.

As she opens the door he calls her back.

“For what it’s worth, I think Lord Snow would be proud of you. Even if we can’t save him. He’d be proud,” he says calmly.

_ I hope I deserve it _ .

*

"Oh yes, this works better," exhales Master rolling his eyes in pleasure. Jon does not answer but even if he wanted to, he couldn't. He's currently laid out on his back, his wrists tightly tied with rope to the headboard and his ankles to the bedposts. The man who bought him as one does cattle sits heavily on his red, tired face. Jon struggles to breath through the crack between Sosruqo's cheeks but barely any air comes through. Still, panicking has yet to get him out of anything in life.

They've tried this another way, with Sosruqo on his front and Jon kneeling behind him, but apparently he was being too "shy" as Sosruqo worded it, not nearly involved enough in the act. The fact that he gagged from the feeling of sickness spurred Master Sosruqo to skip positions and to just restrain Jon. It's not like he needs his hands for this. Just possibly another hole to breathe, he thinks blinking furiously, tears forming in his eyes from the lack of air.

He forces himself to concentrate so this will end sooner, so he'll finally be able to breathe, so he can get the disgusting smell and taste and the shame out of his mouth, lungs and mind. So he'll finally sleep. Over seven constantly by Sosruqo's side in his quarters has taken its toll on Jon. He's tired, but not in his body, not his bones like after a battle; his mind is tired. He's become quieter even in his own head. 

"You're not focusing, pet."

_ Damn, just fucking come.  _

Jon hardens his tongue and tries his best to get over the sickening taste. He just wants it to be over, and his lack of interest in this practice is apparent. Sosruqo bends so he can grasp Jon's flaccid member in his hand and gives a few strokes, causing Jon to curl his toes and groan. He surges and the man lets out a satisfied sound, before leaving his cock mostly alone, giving one casual stroke every once in a while. Not often enough for Jon to become desperate, but enough for him to be interested.

And Jon hates it even more.

He renews his efforts, sliding his pointy tongue in and out, not caring for anything else but to satisfy and finally tire the slaver. Sosruqo's moans become louder and his muscles tense around Jon. He's close.

Jon gives one deep, decisive thrust and just like that, his face sweaty and smothered, his wrists pulling against the ropes in suffocating desperation, it's over.

Sosruqo tenses as his orgasm takes over him and then he stills, his sperm all over Jon's stomach and thighs. It doesn't bother Jon anymore to have the man's seed on his skin, it's hardly the worst or the most demeaning thing that has been done to him in Tyrosh.

Jon's complaint is muffled but does not go unheard for Sosruqo seems to remember the suffocating slave under him and removes himself from atop him. 

_ Air. _

Jon coughs loudly as the man sprawls beside him, massaging his glistening chest and sighing. Then he sits up and leers at Jon, who's still panting. 

"You should see yourself, so debauched and dirty. You're a vision." 

Jon turns his head not to glare at him. He hears a chuckle beside him. He shuts his eyes.

After a few moments his ankles and next his wrists are free, and the man lays down next to him again. Jon moves his feet around, massages his wrists.

"Time to sleep," says Sosruqo, passing a hand through Jon’s curls, "even though it's morning."

“Yes, Master,” he answers as he turns and gives him his back. Sosruqo pulls his hair back for a moment. Docile, Jon lets him, shutting his eyes. Once satisfied with his lack of resistance, his owner releases him. 

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” the man says casually, a yawn breaking his words, “does that mean you’re finally settling in? Into your new life?”

“Yes, Master,” he replies again, because that’s what’s been taught to him. His eyes are still shut.

“Mmh, I’m glad,” answers softly Master Sosruqo with another yawn. “It’s just like anything else. Takes practice. Things will get easier now, you’ll see.”

Jon nods, tired of the conversation. 

_ Shut up... Shut up. Shut up. Shut up _ .

The man falls quiet, his breath tuning deeper.

Jon doesn't sleep, he just looks at the sun shining blindingly through the open window and he listens to the sounds of the district at midday. The sounds of horses and wheels come up from the city, a city almost unknown to him. A city full of slaves, it must be easy to go unnoticed in the crowd, disappear in a puff of smoke. If only one manages to make it out of the most patrolled areas. 

Sosruqo's snore reaches him and, as he's been doing for the past week Jon waits a long time, eyes unseeing, just listening to his owner's loud breathing. 

The bells of the Temple of Trios will ring soon, he thinks, as his heartbeat quickens in anticipation. Slowly, as quiet as he can Jon gets off the bed and walks to the window, turning back a few times to make sure the other occupant hasn't woken. It's a new routine he’s taken up. 

After his punishment he has seen no one but Sosruqo, and he hasn't left the man's bedchamber if not to follow him into his study. 

The nights pass slowly, painfully, at times they turn fast and dull, but they never end before turning into dawn, the sky going from black to red to orange to blue. The colors tell him how long still he has to submit. It's still not his second nature, but it's turned worryingly easier, he recognizes sickeningly. He's tired of fighting.

But the window haunts him. So do the bells. He barely realized it in the beginning, but day after day, Sosruqo sleeps soundly, exhausted from the night's activities, and something pushes Jon to slip out of bed and go to the window. 

Today is no different. He glances down. They're on the second floor, and it's tall but possibly not a fatal fall. The problem is what waits on the ground. Four guards stand on this side of the pleasure house. Jon has gathered this is one of the most prestigious in the city. It's nothing like brothels in Westeros. Nobody cares for whores there, and they have nowhere to go but where they are.

Four guards have never scared Jon, and were it for him he'd have jumped already. If they catch him, he's as well as dead, but if he stays he's hardly alive in any case. A pair of warm honey coloured eyes make their way into his mind. He's not running alone. But he can't put the boy in that kind of danger.

The ledge is only wide for one person to climb on. And then slide along the wall to the right, and climb down the window on the first floor. Then jumping is the only possibility. 

The guards carry spears and a whip each and they carefully look at the slaves that pass by. Most have a handler leading them. Carriages pass at this hour, some transporting milk, or pear brandy, some new slaves. Some are empty, heading to the market district. The guards don't seem to pay any attention to those. But they stand there every time Jon looks out of the window.

He's grown up in a castle and he knows this. There's always an opening. A flaw. And this is hardly a castle. Tyroshi are a paranoid people, probably a consequence of the continuous infighting with the other Free Cities, Lys and Myr, over the control of the Stepstones. Its history as a military outpost of the Valyrian Freehold might be a factor as well. They are also known for their innovation in torture devices. Lovely, all in all.

But there must be a flaw. A breach in security. He has yet to find it. 

He waits for the bells, his eyes shut. 

_ Don't wake up. _

He turns around. Sosruqo's sleepingface is turned to him, his mouth slightly open, hands under his pillow. His cock hangs limply, still looking bigger than the average man.

The bells sing their songs for the faithful. And for the faithless as well.

Jon's breath catches. The midday sun burns on his skin.

Sosruqo stirs, sunlight playing games on his face. He frowns. Then turns on the other side, away from the light.

Jon breathes again. Looks out again.

There must be a changing of the guard at some point. But no matter how long he looks, nobody moves. Carriages ride by, the wheels' clatter announcing their passing. Slaves keep walking by quietly. 

Nothing. 

He bites his lip. He feels like he's going crazy. There's no way out, especially not with a kid in tow. They'd be noticed. 

He hears some loud voices from a distance. He looks towards the sound and spies by the fountain of what looks like a drunken god an elderly dwarf juggler. A small crowd has gathered around him, clapping their hands and laughing at him.

Jon notices the dwarf keeps dropping his balls, and has to chase them across the square. Some people throw coins at him, clearly amused by the scene.

The dwarf bows clumsily, age and stature not helping him and someone makes him trip. 

Jon diverts his eyes, sickened by the sight. He looks right down the window again. 

The guards haven't left their post but they do move closer to the scene happening in the square. Jon hears them laughing loudly. None of them pays attention to the street, carriages riding past them unnoticed. 

_ There it is. _

A cough reaches his ears from behind. He turns quickly, looking over the Sosruqo. He's turned once again, facing Jon. His eyes are closed. 

Jon sighs. With one last look to the window, he quietly climbs back into bed. His head sinks into the pillow, Sosruqo's slow breath warming his shoulder. 

He sleeps.

*

In the evening he's finally - finally - allowed some time alone. Master Sosruqo has a meeting with a slave dealer from Qohor in his study and has allowed Jon to go back to his room. Not quite believing his luck, he bows and leaves quietly.

The first thing he does when he does get to his room, is put on his only pair of braies, the red pair with the long hole on the back of each leg and gets out. Air. He needs air.

As a child, he would spend most of his days outside in the yard. It wasn't appropriate for a natural born to have as many lessons as his Lord's heir, so while Robb got to learn from books most of the North's history and economics, Jon learnt how to fight from Ser Rodrik, he was taught about hunting from Jory and he learnt about the earth from the farmer. He followed his Father on his journeys and picked up what he could about politics, and ruling and diplomacy. His Father hadn't minded, he seemed glad to teach Jon as much as he was able without angering Lady Catelyn. Jon had been glad as well, it was one of the few advantages of being a bastard. When Robb wasn't having his additional lessons, they'd both be either playing or sparring. That didn't change when Theon arrived.

So he'd grown up used to being in the open air, rarely forced to stay within four walls. The same happened when he joined the Watch. It hardly mattered that he was chosen as the Lord Commander's steward, once he got cocky enough he would spend most of his time with the rangers, sparring outside. Lord Commander Mormont had a soft spot for Jon, so he turned a blind eye.

And then they left for beyond the Wall and there were no walls to trap Jon inside. Even as a prisoner of the Free Folk, he was free to roam. 

His duty as Lord Commander is what kept him inside the most, even more than being King. He remembers how much he used to hate those days spent on paperwork.

But never as much as he hates his life now. After a week spent inside the Master Chambers and his study, never allowed to be alone, Jon wishes he could just throw himself out of a high tower.

Since that's not an option, he heads downstairs. A walk in the garden, as much of a prison as it still is, is all he wants to do right now. Except scream. He wants to scream.

As he walks through the first floor he spots Torrjan, who's guarding the Master's door. The guard smirks at him and Jon glares back, his blood boiling as he goes back to the night he and the other guards took him one after another, laughing as blood ran down his thighs.

His breath turns laboured but he forces himself to ignore the guard, trying to just keep a low profile and stay out of trouble. Both he and his ass need a reprieve.

As he walks past him, he's suddenly thrown face first into the wall, leather pressed to his naked back. He struggles, pushing back against the man with a grunt. 

"Get off," he orders, his voice a menacing growl.

"Shut up, slut," whispers the guard into his ear. "Or maybe I'll go and have fun with your Myrwoman. Hole's a hole."

Gods. 

This game will never end, will it. Jon hates himself for letting them see through him, and now all they need to say is her name. They probably wouldn't even carry it through. But there's a risk. 

Does it even matter who fucks him? Sosruqo, a woman, a hundred strangers… he's just currency now.

Shutting his eyes, defeated, he relaxes, going boneless.

"That's it. Now," growls the guard. "This can go two ways."

Jon's braies are tugged down, leaving his buttocks uncovered. He lays his forehead on the wall, breathing deeply.

Something smooth and hard presses against his opening and he tenses as he realizes it's the handle of the whip.

"This or my cock, slut. Your choice."

Jon forces air out of his nostrils but remains quiet.

Fuck you. Do your worst, he almost says.

"Choose or I will for you."

He's not going to beg for anything. He’ll bend and bow and jump if he has to, but he won’t beg for a thing if he can help it. If he bleeds out and dies, then it just means it's finally over. Not how he'd have chosen to go, but he's not going to mind once he's gone.

"Go to hell," he just snarls. Maybe it'll be quick.

"Well, I guess THAT MEANS you're up to either. Maybe you just like to have something up your ass. I guess I'm going t-"

"Oh FORGIVE ME! Am I interrupting something?" says a deep, melodic voice, clearly faking innocence. Jon has no idea who that is, but they obviously  _ meant  _ to interrupt. The whip stops pressing into his opening and Torrjan must have turned for he’s not breathing down Jon’s neck anymore. He still pushes Jon’s head against the wall, holding him in place.

“Shut the fuck up! Go suck some dick downstairs,” growls Torrjan at the stranger, trying not to raise his voice too much.

“Sorry, man. Don’t let me stop you from having fun with- ah, that must be the new one! Ain’t he cute?” the person says with a whistle. Jon tenses at the thought he’s attracting yet another man’s unwanted attention.

“I didn’t know you had new privileges, Tor,” continues the stranger, his voice hinting at something Jon can’t quite grasp. “Damn, you must be doing well!”

“Mind your own business before I shut that big mouth for you!” snarls Torrjan now releasing Jon, fully turning to face the other. 

Jon turns as well, while tugging up his braies. He quietly looks at the newcomer. It’s a twenty something looking ivory-skinned man with long wavy ebony hair and big clever violet eyes. A devilish smile he barely conceals gives him a dangerous and womanly look.

“Mhm, I always have trouble recognizing people’s emotions. Let’s see… red face, evil look, very painful looking boner… You’re… mad?” asks the man, cocking his head to the side, an exaggeratedly questioning frown on his delicate features. 

He just oozes contrition.

“Get the fuck out, or I’ll-”

“Yes, you know, I would, but,” cuts in loudly the dark haired man, “I was told to give the new pup a tour, introduce him to the, ah, ladies… So, I’ll just steal him for now and we’ll be on our way.”

He beckons to Jon, who, with only a moment of hesitation, moves around the guard and goes to stand beside the stranger. For the first time since he’s been here, Torrjan’s anger is not directed at him. He looks like he’s forgotten about Jon.

“I’ll see you man when you don’t look so…” the dark haired man hesitates before looking blatantly at the guard’s groin, “stiff.”

He ignores the guard’s squinting eyes and turns his back to him, heading across the floor. Jon follows a couple steps behind, more than a bit flummoxed. As they head downstairs, he takes a moment to study the man.

He's tall and slender, but muscular, with long thin legs covered by a pair green braies similar to the one's Jon's wearing. Only difference is that he wears jewellery at both ankles. He wears several golden bracelets on one wrist and there is a golden ring circling his upper arm. Now that Jon's looking more closely, his hair is black with violet strands cascading down his narrow shoulders.

Jon remembers the first boy whore he ever saw. Satin was objectively pretty. This one is… of another level.

"Like what you see?"

The man has stopped and turned around and must have noticed him gawking. He stares at Jon with a smirk and a twinkle in his eyes.

"Sorry," Jon offers, mildly embarrassed.

"Oh, don't worry. Once you've been here long enough you get used to being leered at," the man tells him with a wink.

"I wasn't leerin-" Jon says, but then decides it's safer to change topic. "He told you to show me around?"

"What? Did I say that? Damn, the Common Tongue always gets me confused," the man sighs theatrically, but Jon seriously doubts he has any difficulty with the language. He would have sworn he was from Westeros a moment ago. The lack of a specific inflection is probably a tell tale sign that he's a foreigner, though, now that he thinks of it.

"I meant I was told by me to give you a tour!" He snickers.

"So…" Jon deduces, "Sosruqo didn't-"

"Here's some advice for you, sweety," the man interrupts him and takes a step closer to Jon. "Don't go around forgetting his title, if you like balls attached to your cock. I myself couldn't care less, but if any of the guards or the other whores hear you, you'll regret it. If you can't do that, then don't mention him at all."

Jon stares into the other's now serious eyes for a moment and then nods. The twinkle comes immediately back in those violet irises, so similar in color to Dany's.

"Another advice: you want the guards to be your allies, not your enemies."

"You weren't exactly making friends there," Jon replies with a raised brow.

"Rules don't apply to an old whore like me, honey. And I've known Torrjan a long time. I know how far I can take him and exactly how to go back," he smirks. "My point is, you need to have something on them. It'll come useful sooner or later. Guards aren't generally allowed to touch new slaves, or the children. And they're certainly not allowed to injure us or leave a mark. Use that to your advantage, if you can."

"He seemed ready to injure me," Jon says with a look back upstairs.

"Oh, please. Torrjan is an asshole but he's not a complete idiot. He'd never have fucked you with that. One drop of blood and he's out of here. He wanted you to believe it, though. Since you're new and all."

Jon digests that and nods.

"But enough about that. What's your name, honey?"

"Edd," answers Jon, still not happy about giving information, not even fake one. "What's yours?"

"Which one?"

"Which one…?"

"I've got many names, love. You're from Westeros, I hear. Well, imagine I am some prince with infinite titles. Know what I mean?"

_ You have no idea. _

"Well, my mother named me Ozias. An old name from Asshai, where she was born. When she was close to birthing me, she fled her home, as Asshai is not the place to raise children," starts the man.

There are no children in Asshai, he remembers Maester Luwin telling him that once upon a time.

"She fled to Volantis, and she was taken in at a brothel, where I was born. She died as soon as I started breathing and she told the whores attending to her what she wanted to name me. But as I grew up the women didn't really think that was an appropriate name. Asshai is a dark place, and only bad things can come from it. So they chose to name me Lanty, which in High Valyrian means fox, since I was small and smart, and my hair used to be red. Then I started working here, and Master thought Fox was actually a good nighttime name for a working pleasure slave. So that's how I got pinned with at least three names."

Jon listens carefully, for the young man, whatever name he prefers, is the first person he's met after Melisandre who comes from Asshai. 

He lost his mother at birth, as well. He used to think his mother worked in a brothel, too. He decides he doesn’t dislike this one.

"I've got other, sweeter names. But those only my clients whisper."

"And what should I call you, then?" He asks at last.

"The other slaves call me Ozzy. Unless you want to call me something more...intimate," Ozias says with a wink.

Jon looks away, embarrassed. He looks around and realizes he's been led to a corner without guards.

"Have you been here long? You seem to know… a lot."

The man snickers again, but Jon can see the bitterness behind it.

"It seems like a lifetime," Ozias finally replies. "I think it's been… seventeen years."

He looks younger than Jon. Probably in his mid-twenties. That means…

"You're doing the math," offers the man. "I was one of the children, yes. Actually there was only me, back then. I was Master's first successful experiment."

“What do you mean?”

Whatever it is, it sounds like a horrifying thing to say, calling a child an experiment.

“Well, children are expensive, but they also… ruin easily. Most of the first attempts ended badly. He was successful with me, so much he decided to keep me even as I got older. Doesn’t happen often.”

“And you never thought of escaping?”

Ozias laughs at him.

“My, you are trouble. Maybe that’s what I should call you. Because Edd doesn’t fit such a pretty face.”

Jon looks away again. Ozias invades his space and backs him against the wall, biting his lower lip suggestively. Jon stares at him coldly, wondering if he shouldn’t have judged him so well. The predatory look in his eyes makes him think the name he was given is not unfitting. Still, the man is slender and Jon can push him away in a second, but he hesitates, not wanting to hurt him.

“Last advice,” whispers Ozias in Jon’s ear, “Don’t trust anyone here. All those pretty whores living upstairs, they all want to fuck Master’s new favourite. Say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and you’re dead.”

“And you’d be such a pretty corpse,” continues Ozias, sneaking a hand behind Jon’s back, groping at him.   
  
“Do you want to keep that hand?” Jon growls.

“Attached to your plump ass? Forever,” snickers the man.

Jon makes to push him away, but Ozias backs away before he can throw him off.

“Mhm, Trouble is grumpy. Let me guess, is it orgasm denial?” asks Ozias with an sympathetic frown not that different than the one he’d made with the guard.

Jon just glares. Ozias laughs.

“Oh, at ease, soldier, I’m just fucking with you. You’re hot. But I knew you preferred pussy the moment I saw you. Not that it changes a thing in here,” he shrugs. 

Jon steps away from the wall putting more distance between them. He starts to leave, not sure if he should just go back to his room already. He doesn’t want to stumble into Torrjan again, though.

“Hey, you gonna sulk at me forever?”Ozias has caught up with him again. Jon does not stop. 

“Listen, I was just teasing. But I meant it, you want to be careful to what you say,” he tells Jon, and catches him by the arm, turning him around. “You seem like a decent person, which is rare in this place. I’m just warning you. There are no friends here, only allies. Do you understand the difference?”

Jon stares into those violet eyes which are now very serious.

“Better than anyone,” he answers. Then walks off again.

Remembering that once again in his life he needs allies, he stops and turns to the other man, who hasn’t moved from his previous spot. Ozias is where he left him, his face somber.

“Well, I thought you were going to show me around?”

A naughty grin splits the long haired man’s face, and for a moment, Jon feels just a tiny little bit less alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yara here is Queen, though she said Aye when Bran was crowned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and thank you even more if you left kudos. If you comment, I will always answer.
> 
> my discord channel, we can talk about fics or stories of books or the fandom in general: https://discord.gg/Dkfpfc


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